


Concurrence

by CaptainCritical



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Frottage, Gore, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Romance, Slow Build, Smut, UST, concurrence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 59,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCritical/pseuds/CaptainCritical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>con·cur·rence</p><p>1. Agreement in opinion.<br/>2. Cooperation, as of agents, circumstances, or events.<br/>3. Simultaneous occurrence; coincidence. </p><p>Sometimes relationships just happen. And sometimes they don't. </p><p>Eventual Anders/Fenris with history of Fenris/Hawke.</p><p>Will contain sex/sexual themes/some variation thereof; you have been warned. Evolving tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is dialogue-heavy because I find speech awkward to write and wanted to challenge myself.

When Anders opens his eyes, reality comes rushing back entirely too quickly. His dreams have never been especially pleasant, but he's willing to bet that whatever his subconscious mind could conjure would be better than this. And lately, his subconscious mind has been rather cruel.

 

He's in a cell - cold, dank, and devoid of light, but mercifully not alone. He knows his company is none too fond of him and slightly abrasive at even the best of times, but contemptuous company is better than no company at all. In confinement, anyway.

 

The bars against his back become unpleasantly apparent again as he shifts his weight, but still he finds himself grateful to have something on which to lean at all; the floor is filthy and even further from comfortable. He doesn't know how long they've been locked up like this, but he's hungry and somehow more tired for having slept. His movement causes the other man to stir, and for a brief moment before he reminds himself that it's _Fenris **,**_ he feels guilt for waking him. He's considering the swiftness of the elf's reflexes when his thoughts are interrupted.

 

"Stop fidgeting," Fenris says, voice gravelly and sounding dry, "you're wasting your energy."

 

Anders marvels at Fenris's resolve to always treat him like a piece of trash regardless of circumstance. "For what exactly am I saving my energy?" He questions, "I can't use magic here anyway, we've established that."

 

Thinking back to their initial capture and the bindings with which the Tal-Vashoth had silenced his power, he recalls when their small group was overwhelmed. He remembers the sight of Hawke and Isabela fleeing, retreating from the sheer number of the horned giants, and he tries not to think about his panicked reaction of fear and abandonment at that memory.

 

"Is that all you ever think about?" Fenris snaps quickly, somehow even less agreeable than usual.

 

Anders is about to say 'what, _Hawke_?' before his brain starts processing again enough to respond. "You mean like how you only think of the colour black and the torture of small, furry animals?"

 

"Funny." The elf's careful tone indicates that he thinks the opposite. Anders's fingers are once again circling the metal of the collar with which he's been bound. No clasp, no buckle; the Qunari apparently don't hesitate to use magic to _restrict_ mages. There's something etched into the surface that he thinks is a series of runes. He supposes he should be grateful that they didn't sew his mouth shut, but he knows better than to express that thought out loud.

 

"Do you still hate us all?" Anders asks before he can stop the question from coming out of his mouth. At this point, he's too tired to care why he bothers asking.

 

"Us? Are you harbouring _multiple_ demons now?" His tone is indifferent, almost sarcastic but lacking effort.

 

Anders wonders if the rolling of his eyes is audible. "Yes, Fenris - one for each day of the week." The warrior scoffs at this. "Justice is _not_ a demon. And I was talking about mages."

 

"Of course you were." Soft footfalls on dirt let Anders know that Fenris is on his feet again, pacing on the other side of the bars that separate them. Apparently _his_ energy is wasteable.

 

"That's not an answer. You can't despise an entire group of people just because one of them treated you poorly." Anders admits to himself that _poorly_ might be an understatement, but neither of them are in the mood to argue semantics.

 

"It was more than one." Fenris doesn't want to talk about this anymore.

 

"What about Hawke?" Anders asks, though he knows it's a bad idea. He can't understand what their mutual friend sees in this prickly, judgmental git. The footfalls stop.

 

"He is _not_ the same." The warrior's voice is low, threatening. Anders smirks, safe in the dark, the small sadistic part of him happy to have found another button to push.

 

"He's a mage, just like me," he baits, and waits for the outburst he knows will inevitably follow.

 

"He is nothing like you!" Fenris growls.

 

"No, you're right. We're very different. _I_ wouldn't have slept with you."

 

Anders's eyes are stricken suddenly with the blue-white glow of lyrium. Before they have time to adjust, it's black again and he's seeing a spattering of light spots in the vague shape of an elf. He's trying to blink them away when Fenris speaks, words just audible enough to make out. His voice is carefully controlled - an even, measured tone. Anders doesn't know if the words are meant for him or not.

 

"He told you."

 

It's not a question. Anders gets the impression that it'smore a realization made aloud, and regrets broaching the subject instantly. As vexed as he is - Maker knows why - by the fact that Fenris can accept _other_ mages, he shouldn't have played this card. What the two of them do behind closed doors is none of his business. It's not as though Fenris has ever shown _him_ any sympathy, though. Anders sighs.

 

"He didn't have to tell me; it was plain as day." He can't see in the dark to tell if that makes the warrior feel any better, but he does hear him sit down. "You've been enamoured with him since the night you met."

 

Fenris doesn't respond.

 

"Does it bother you that I know?" He doesn't know why he's asking a question to which he already knows the answer. "I can understand not wanting to call attention to your personal affairs, but there's no need to _hide_ them. Why bother acting like you aren't together? He's been so awkward around you lately."

 

Fenris still doesn't respond.

 

Anders sighs again. "Forget I said anything." He shifts uncomfortably against the bars and leans his head back, closing his eyes. Hawke and Isabela had to be coming by now; it had been... hours? Almost a day? No one had come to check on them - not when he'd first tried casting spells, or when the two of them yelled - not even when Fenris tried his level best to magically _fist_ himself out of his cell. It didn't make sense to take live prisoners and not guard them. Not that it made sense to take live prisoners at all. The Tal-Vashoth couldn't be talked out of it, though - and the elf had tried. Maybe if he'd have _cut_ them instead of trying to reason with them, the situation would have played out differently. They'd already had that argument.

 

"It's no act," Fenris says under his breath. The words are barely audible, but they're enough to sever Anders's chain of thought.

 

"Hm?"

 

Fenris gets up, exhales shakily, and slides down the bars between them to sit just a few feet away. "Hawke. It's done."

 

"I... oh. But-"

 

"Don't."

 

Anders shuts his mouth and sits quietly, feeling awkward. He can't remember ever having a conversation with Fenris that didn't somehow turn into a pissing match, much less a time when the elf had ever let himself appear anything but rigid and stoic. He hadn't anticipated that the other man would actually _admit_ to being with Hawke; he'd expected denial. Denial would have been less uncomfortable.

 

"...I shouldn't have pushed," he starts, by way of an apology. He doesn't even know where he's going with it, but he has to say _something_.

 

"It's nothing," Fenris replies far too quickly, trying - and possibly for the first time since the mage has known him - failing, at nonchalance. Anders doesn't know why he finds it so disturbing. He holds in a scoff.

 

"It can't just be _nothing_. The two of you have danced around each other for months! What happened?" He asks the question without really expecting an answer. He waits anyway, a natural impulse derived from the care of dozens of patients and countless nights spent commiserating with circle mages and Wardens.

 

Fenris is opening his mouth to speak when a familiar voice rings clearly from nearby, " _If we kill them, we get their stuff!_ "

 

Rescue.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party works to free Anders of his new unwanted accessory. Fenris works just to remain free.
> 
> Eventual Fenris/Anders, previous Fenris/Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are not enough hours in a day! I feel like this took forever, and for that I apologize. Hopefully the next part will be updated in less than a week.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading/leaving kudos/commenting!

"Have you ever seen an enchantment that was meant to hinder?" Hawke asks, puzzled. The sunset over Kirkwall doesn't do much to make the City of Chains look any better, but it does cast a warm glow over the mage's strong features. He blows the stray strands of hair away from his face and turns to look at Anders, deep blue eyes squinting against the light of the setting sun. Fenris watches his own feet as the four of them walk along, trying not to notice how the shadows play over Hawke's tanned skin.

　

"Not that I can remember, but I did avoid the Tranquil like the plague," Anders says. He tilts his neck slightly as he walks so the other man can get a better look at the collar. It's a simple construct, forged of some type of metal, and seamless. The fading light illuminates crude symbols etched all the way around. "Are they runes?" He asks, stopping to run his fingers over the lines for what is probably the thousandth time.

　

"I think so, but they don't look like any of the ones that I've seen. I don't know very much about enchanting." Hawke bites his bottom lip, brows furrowed as he tries to remember. Instead of watching, Fenris lifts his left foot off the ground and feigns a sudden interest in his toes.

　

"I think it makes him _look_ enchanting," Isabela asserts, leaning in to elbow Fenris conspiratorily. It earns her a scowl as he puts his foot back down to balance himself.

　

" _I_ think we should leave it on him," he retorts, not joking. Anders rolls his eyes and ignores the comment altogether.

　

"Do you really think Sandal can help?" He asks, though at this point he doesn't really have any other options.

　

"It can't hurt to try. Bodahn said the mages at the circle called him a _savant_." Hawke raises his eyebrows, hands in the air and fingers wiggling in an impression that Fenris doesn't entirely understand. "I'm heading home anyway; you'd might as well just tag along." Anders nods, the doubtful look on his face betraying the agreement indicated by the action. Fenris stops walking.

　

"I... think I'll go now, if you don't need me for anything else." When Hawke turns to acknowledge him, he checks the bottoms of his feet again for something that still isn't there. The Amell estate is not really a place he wants to be at the moment.

　

"No, that's... fine." Hawke clears the frown from his lips before anyone has a chance to see it, and Fenris nods without meeting his gaze. He turns on his heels and tries not to walk away too quickly, Anders's knowing eyes on his back as he goes.

　

 

***

 

　

Anders can't decide if Sandal's perpetual smile is heartwarming or terrifying, but in his current situation, he's going with the latter. He's sitting on the floor of Hawke's study, head tilted at a painful angle while the dwarf chisels slowly at the metal around his neck. The boy didn't have any answers, though no one had really expected a lengthy explanation from him in the first place. He was confident that he could remove it, at least - that was comforting.

　

"You did say you were sure he knows what he's doing, didn't you?" He asks, voice higher than usual, not bothering to hide his incredulity. Bodahn steps closer to his other side, hands folded neatly in front of him and a look of pride adorning his face.

　

"I can assure you he is the best, Messere. The folks at the circle called him a --"

　

"He knows," Hawke interrupts, then tries to recover with a smile when Bodahn frowns. Sandal works away, etching a line that joins two symbols while humming to himself. Anders closes his eyes and attempts steady breathing.

　

"I still say we could have some fun with that," Isabela jests, leaning sideways when she winks so he can fully appreciate her comic genius.

　

"I'll tell you what; you can keep the blighted thing." It's been a long day and his patience is wearing thin.

　

"Almost done!" Sandal exclaims, and Bodahn rests an encouraging hand on the boy's shoulder. Anders is sure that the sight would be heartwarming if he could only move his neck and stop trying to watch the metal instruments moving out of the corner of his eye. The scratching of metal on metal isn't doing much to comfort him.

　

Sandal taps one more time with his hammer and the collar falls to the ground in two pieces, the metal landing with a soft _thud_ on the carpeted floor. Isabela claps her hands together a few times, smiling, and Anders reaches a hand up to rub his neck in relief.

　

"Thank the Maker," he says, and reaches to shake Sandal's hand, "And thank _you_. There's not even a scratch on me!" The boy beams at him once again.

　

"I like enchantment!"

 

　

***

 

　

Fenris rests his weight against the door as soon as he closes it behind him, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Despite being inactive for most of the day, he finds himself even more exhausted than usual. He's used to coming back to the manor with his legs aching and his muscles on fire, washing the day off along with the blood and dirt in a basin of cool water, and sleeping. There's no point in trying to convince himself that this is how normal people live their lives, but the simple routine is the closest thing to normalcy that he's known since he fled Danarius.

　

Usually he finds solace in the simple actions, deliberately thinking of nothing in particular and operating solely on muscle memory. He does these things of his own accord and is thankful for that alone, reminding himself often not to take them for granted. Tonight though, he can't help but think that he's finally taken one too many blows to the head.

　

Of all the people in Kirkwall - in the entire _Free Marches_ \- he'd told the mage. Anyone else could have handily deflected the topic, but instead he'd opened his well-trained mouth and let out the secret he'd been keeping for the better part of a month. What was wrong with him? He'd spent the majority of his adult life hiding from other people and staying carefully silent, and today he'd spilled his guts to someone who wasn't even fully human. The worst part wasn't that Anders had somehow known already, or that he'd mentioned it with the sole intention of setting him off, but that he'd actually shown _pity_ when Fenris had admitted to the whole Hawke... situation.

　

Rubbing his temples with the fingers of one hand, he wonders how anyone could go from taunting a person one moment to asking for the fine details of his pain the next - and then he remembers. He had fought with everything he had to escape the emotional manipulation of mages, and here he is, yet again falling victim. Fenris squeezes the wet cloth in his fist and hurls it at the wall, where it sticks sadly for a moment and then falls to the ground.

　

Sleep doesn't come when he climbs into his oversized bed.

 

　

***

 

　

Hawke swallows the last mouthful of what Anders believes to be his fourth glass of wine and sets the goblet back down with little finesse. "I'd be hard-pressed to believe the Qunari do any kind of enchanting," he says just a little too loudly.

　

Anders looks down to his first half-empty drink and sighs. "They put collars on their mages though, don't they? How does that work, exactly?" The conversation has been going nowhere since it started, and he's beginning to think it'll have to wait for another day.

　

"I don't know," Hawke says, not really paying attention, eyeing the meagre amount of wine left in the bottle. "Are you going to drink that?" Anders shakes his head and tries to remember if he's ever seen the other man drink so fervently. Perhaps once or twice at the Hanged Man on special occasions, but never in his own home on what was sadly, for them, a relatively normal day. There had to be something bothering him.

　

"You'd be better off asking Fenris," Isabela offers in a rare moment of insight. "He seems to be pretty friendly with those... things." Hawke lets out a single _ha!_ that seems to startle everyone in the room, his Mabari included. Isabela looks at Anders when he jumps and stifles a giggle.

　

"Yes, because Fenris is soooo chatty," Hawke continues, voice suddenly full of contempt, and pulls what's left of the wine straight from the bottle. Anders takes the cue and goes for it.

　

"I don't know, he's seemed pretty friendly with _you_ lately" he says, trying to sound casual. Hawke's face drops and he seems to sober for a moment.

　

"What's that supposed to mean?" His face is far less neutral than he probably intends.

　

"I was just wondering if the two of you ever got your collective shit together, that's all." Anders tries to shrug like he meant nothing of his comment.

　

"I don't know what you're talking about." Hawke pushes his chair back and stands, effectively ending the conversation. "I think I'd like to go to bed now. You two can stay as long as you'd like." He flashes the two of them a forced smile and exits the room.

 

　

***

 

　

After dropping Isabela at the Hanged Man, Anders finally allows himself to wonder why Hawke would lie to him about Fenris. The man has never been shy about his romantic endeavours before, but to the best of his knowledge _they've_ never involved any of their mutual friends. He really can't even be sure that Hawke is the one who lied; for all he knew, the other man could have left in a hurry because the alcohol wasn't sitting well. The way he'd reacted though, he didn't think that was the case.

　

He considers whether Fenris would have asked Hawke not to say anything. From what he knew of the elf, it certainly seemed plausible - but if he did, then why tell Anders himself about it? He can't think of any reason why Fenriswould lie to him, especially about something so personal. What could he possibly have to gain from that? The two of them barely even speak as it is. He shakes the thoughts out of his head as he makes his way down the last set of stairs to Darktown. It really isn't any of his business anyway.

　

Rounding the final corner to the clinic, Anders is immensely grateful that no one has stopped him to ask for aid. It has to be past midnight by now, if his constant yawns are indicative of anything. Linking the fingers of his hands, he stretches his arms above his head and lets out a quiet sigh. Maybe he'll actually sleep tonight. He smiles to himself at the thought and then stops dead, mid-step.

　

"Mage," Fenris says from his makeshift seat outside the clinic door. "Late night?"


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably resign myself to the fact that one chapter per week is likely what I'll end up being able to complete.
> 
> Silly employment interfering with leisure!
> 
> This chapter contains mature language. (Is anyone offended by swearing any more?)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Anders takes a tentative step forward and fixes his face with the most neutral expression possible. He is not afraid of Fenris. Not any more than he would be of anyone else sitting outside of his clinic in the middle of the night, anyway. Except that anyone else probably wouldn't be wielding a greatsword... and the ability to eviscerate a person with his bare hands. The elf doesn't look any more angry than usual, though, and if he really wanted Anders dead, he could easily have caught him with his guard down just a few minutes ago. Plus, he seems to recall Hawke asking the two of them not to kill each other. Surely Fenris remembers that, too?

 

"Did you not get enough of me earlier?" he asks, trying to smirk but lacking the energy to properly do so. "I seem to recall you running away pretty quickly when you got the chance."

 

"I did not run away," Fenris states simply, offering nothing else. Anders shifts uncomfortably, and after a few more seconds of awkward silence, he steps forward to unlock the clinic door. Fenris hefts the weight of his sword with unsettling ease and moves to follow him as he goes inside. Over his shoulder, Anders can't help but shoot him a questioning look. The elf stares back at him expectantly.

 

"Is there something you need, Fenris?" he says, sighing, and turns around to face him. When the other man doesn't step back to give him any space, he tries not to appear too rattled. Maybe he _is_ going to kill him, after all. There's no death glare in his eyes though, which - although unusual - is kind of comforting. He notices for the first time that there are dark circles under the elf's eyes, and tries to remember if he usually looks so tired. It occurs to him that he's never been close enough under normal circumstances to know what he really looks like most of the time.

 

"Is this the same warm welcome you'd give your sick refugees?" Fenris asks, raising an eyebrow but not sounding particularly vicious.

 

"The _refugees_ don't want me dead."

 

"They just don't know you very well," he responds flatly. Anders rolls his eyes, turns around and unlocks the door.

 

"Why are you here, Fenris? As much as I always enjoy your thinly-veiled contempt, it's been a long day and I'd like to sleep." Fenris turns his eyes downward and contemplates the ground for a moment. He really does look tired, now that Anders can see him in the light from the clinic's lanterns.

 

"I apologize," the warrior says with a sigh, meeting Anders's eyes in what might be an attempt to convey sincerity. "I actually came to ask for your help with something." 

 

"My... help?" Anders says, not bothering to hide his skepticism. He narrows his eyes and waits.

 

"I cannot sleep," Fenris finally says to his feet, then looks up to find the mage slack-jawed, incredulous.

 

"So let me get this straight," he starts, suddenly feeling awake again but no less haggard. He feels anger start to rise from the pit of his stomach. "You're _tired_ , so you came to the person that you insult and demean on a daily basis to ask for a favour? What in the name of Andraste's holy ass makes you think that I would want to help you? You've done nothing but ridicule me since the day we met! And the worst part isn't even the fact that you openly despise me for no good reason, but that you're such a bloody hypocrite! Always ' _magic is evil_ ' this, and ' _I hate mages_ ' that, but you didn't seem to have a problem going to _bed_ with one, did you? Or did you make an exception because he's so fucking _pretty_?" The words come out of him much too quickly to be stopped, the product of resentment harboured far too long.

 

Fenris remains perfectly still for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden outburst, and Anders is surprised at his self-control. Then he feels it - the subtle vibration of lyrium hits him at the same time that the warrior does, the weight of his entire body knocking him to the ground before pinning him there and wrapping a gauntleted hand around his throat. Illuminated lines of blue form a network of cracks on Anders's skin and he does his best to push the spirit back in his mind - this fight is _his_ and it's been a long time coming.

 

"You will hold your tongue, _demon_ ," Fenris growls in his ear, tightening his grip in a silent threat. Anders can feel the thin line of lyrium on the warrior's palm where it's held against his throat, pulsing in time with his rapidly beating heart. "You know nothing of me _or_ of Hawke. I will not have you manipulating me with what you _think_ happened between us." The sinister resolve in Fenris's eyes falters for a moment and then returns so quickly that Anders can't be sure he even saw it go. "I would have torn your heart from your chest months ago if I hadn't promised him I wouldn't. You don't deserve his mercy."

 

"And you don't deserve _him_ ," Anders chokes on the words and pushes a wave of magic outward, the skin of his neck burning white hot where it touches the brand on Fenris's palm. The elf loosens his grip just long enough for Anders to pull himself free and shove back against the metal of his chestplate for leverage. "You want to sleep, you miserable bastard?" he yells, skin cracking once again, dichotomous voice booming. He shoves his palms forward and forces entropic energy down the length of his arms and through the air - "Then fucking _sleep_!"

 

Fenris falls back to the dirt floor, silent.

 

 

***

 

 

His head is pounding, the incessant ringing in his ears punctuated only by the sound of his own pulse hammering at irregular intervals. He's vaguely aware of a dull pain in his neck and his lower back; this isn't his bed. It isn't his borrowed mansion either, he realizes as he makes the aggravatingly slow ascent toward consciousness. Something isn't right. _Where is he?_ He remembers shifting positions in his bed for hours, trying to find one comfortable enough for sleep to find him. He remembers not being able to stop his own thoughts from returning to the unbelievably foolish thing he'd done earlier that day... _Anders_! 

 

Fenris opens his eyes and sits up abruptly, the sudden movement causing his vision to black out for a moment as he scrambles in vain to locate his sword. When the darkness clears, the bright light of the mid-afternoon sun causes him to still again and bring his hands to his face in defense. When he feels the soft brushing of something against his shoulder, his body moves instinctively to stand on shaky legs and he tries not to wince when the brands on his skin flare in response to the threat of danger.

 

"Fenris, please lie back down. You're only going to make yourself feel worse," a familiar voice pleads quietly. "I am so, _so_ sorry. You attacked me, I know, but I never meant to-" His vision clears at the same time as his mind, and he finds himself once again in Anders's clinic, face to face with an incredibly distraught looking mage. The other man is holding his empty hands hesitantly in front of him, whether in surrender or as an attempt at protection, Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't care.

 

"Touch me again and I will end you, _Mage_ ," he tries to threaten, but his voice leaves his mouth sounding weak and dry. The pressure in his head surges and he has to reach out to the cot between them to maintain his balance.

 

"I won't touch you, I swear," Anders answers, and the stream of apologies starts again in earnest. "Please believe me when I tell you that I didn't mean to hurt you. You had me pinned and then I remember pushing you away and then everything went-"

 

"Shut up!" Fenris roars, eyes closed as he slowly lowers himself back down on the cot. The pleading stops and he exhales slowly as the quiet washes over him again, mercifully dulling the throbbing of his head. He doesn't know how long he sits there, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He allows his mind to clear and focuses on breathing deeply.

 

Eventually the pounding slows, ceases, and he chances opening first one eye and then the other. Anders is sitting on the ground a few feet away, eyes bloodshot, hair unkempt. He reaches a trembling hand out to offer Fenris a cup of water and then nods to himself when it's taken. The elf glares at him while he drinks greedily, not breaking his gaze even once before passing it carefully back to him, empty. The mage just stares, eyes hollow, pleading, and Fenris can't suppress the shiver that runs up his spine when he realizes where he's seen that exact expression before - inside the frame of a mirror in a deserted Hightown mansion, the night he fled from Hawke.

 

It's desperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am aware that Anders cannot learn Entropy spells. Perhaps Justice has secrets of his own, or perhaps I'm taking a few liberties. Please forgive me!


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders fears the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a little late. It ran away from me slightly.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading/commenting/clicking the kudos button!

Anders sits rigidly on the edge of his bed and tries to convince himself to calm down.

 

He was doing fine in Kirkwall before Hawke came along; surely he can keep living even if the other man finally concedes that he's a monster and never wants to see him again. He may not be able to stay in the city itself - at least not visibly - but maybe that's for the best, anyway. The areas surrounding Kirkwall harbour many hiding places, as he's come to know over the last few years. He's certainly not inconspicuous where he is now, offering free aid to strangers with a 'no questions asked' policy in a dark corner of the undercity. Panicked, he wonders how much time he has before Fenris tells everyone that he's no longer just unstable, but completely out of control. Maybe he already has and they're coming for him while he sits quietly, frightened and alone.

 

While he waited for the elf to wake up earlier that day, Anders had resigned himself to his fate. He knew it was over - that he'd finally ruined everything he'd built in one brief moment of anger. He'd finally lost his tenuous hold on self-control not over templars or maleficarum or the rite of tranquility, but over someone's _opinion_ of him. Someone inconsequential, at that. 

 

Hanging his head, he closes his eyes in the corner of his empty clinic, and decides that that inconsequential person may have been right when he said that one sometimes had to turn and face the tiger. He can either sit here and wait for his world to crumble down on top of him, or he can go find out just how much time he has left.

 

The atmosphere inside the Hanged Man is caustic as ever, the scent of bad ale and even less savoury fluids permeating the humid air. It's early in the evening and the place is nearly empty, excepting Kirkwall's most dedicated drunkards lining the bar. Anders idly wishes he could drink his life away before his thoughts return to the matter at hand: Has Fenris told anyone that Anders nearly killed him? He makes his way to Varric's 'suite', finds the door open as usual, and pokes his head inside. Varric looks up from what appears to be a ledger of some sort and breaks into a comfortable, broad grin.

 

"Blondie!" he exclaims, arms spread wide. "You haven't come by in ages! Do you need coin or something?" Anders can't help the slight smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth - when it comes to Varric, very few people can.

 

"If I did, why would I come to you? Hawke is loaded enough that he wouldn't even make me pay him back."

 

"Ouch! You wound my pride, good man. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?" So far, so good. Surely if Fenris has told _anybody_ , Varric of all people would know by now.

 

"Have you heard anything about that enchanted collar yet?" he asks, curious but not expecting much. He'd asked the dwarf to track its origin shortly after he was freed of it. Mostly, the question is an excuse to be where he is at the moment. A flimsy one, at that - if Varric had heard anything, he'd have sent word like he always has. The dwarf eyes him suspiciously for a moment, then apparently decides to let it go.

 

"I'm waiting to hear back from one of my contacts, but there's been talk of something going on in the Gallows."

 

"There's _always_ something going on in the Gallows. Sometimes I think Meredith herself starts the rumors - anything to make mages look worse." Anders's brow furrows and his gaze becomes distant for a moment before he returns mentally to the conversation.

 

"I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything, I promise. I don't suppose you have time for a drink? Nobody comes to visit me anymore. Well, nobody who isn't topping me up or coming to collect from me."

 

"Really?" Anders asks, grateful for the reason to do so, "No one at all? Hawke? Carver? ...Fenris?" Varric narrows his eyes.

 

"Not one of them," he confirms, obviously curious. "Were they supposed to?"

 

"No, I'd just figured that _someone_ would take the time to come and visit our trusty dwarf," Anders recovers. He frowns just a little. "I'm sorry I haven't been around more, Varric. It's been really -"

 

"Don't worry your scruffy magical face, Blondie. I can take care of myself." Anders smiles faintly, seems to consider something for a moment, then grins in earnest.

 

"How about that drink?" Maybe he does have some time, after all.

 

 

***

 

Fenris will not allow himself to care. The man is a mage, an apostate, and obnoxious as all hell to boot. It doesn't matter that he's been tortured and damaged like Fenris himself. Why should he feel badly for the abomination who cast a spell at him, knowing his history with magisters? Maybe his incessant preaching about how the plight of mages mirrors slavery has finally dug its conniving way into his head. Maybe travelling with Hawke has mitigated his hatred for mages. Maybe travelling with Hawke has made him softer in general.

 

Hawke.

 

Hawke, who led him to his bed and made him feel like a man instead of an object for the first time that he can remember. Hawke, whom he had wanted since he first met - an animalistic lust that he'd hoped would become something more, but that never did. Hawke, who said that he _loved_ him and then sat there silently while Fenris apologized for not returning his feelings. While he explained that he didn't know if he was even capable of loving anyone, that he'd only just acquired control of his own life and really had no idea what he was doing or where he was going. Hawke, who'd listened wordlessly and then slowly nodded his understanding before Fenris walked out.

 

He _has_ changed - of that there is no doubt. It's the only possible explanation for his mostly benign reaction to being knocked out by a _demon_ the previous evening. There's no legitimate reason why Fenris should extend his newly discovered empathy to someone like _Anders_ , who possesses no self control and a skewed sense of reality at best. That the man looked troubled is hardly reason enough to forgive him for what he did, for all of the imbecilic things he's done. It may be admirable that the mage spends at least some of his free time trying to use his magic with good intent, but Fenris suspects it has more to do with the guilt of being possessed than it does with his character.

 

There's a knock at the door. Quietly, carefully, Fenris extricates himself from the blankets of his bed and wraps unprotected fingers around the hilt of his sword. It's too late in the evening for anyone other than Hawke to be calling, and _he_ doesn't bother to knock anymore. Not that he bothers to call anymore, either.

 

The knock comes again, more urgent this time. Impatient. Fenris slips silently down the stairs, wracking his brain. Why would an attacker bother to knock? Twice? In the middle of the night, with the sound of the falling rain to muffle their steps?

 

"Fenris?" a familiar voice asks from the other side of the door, "Fenris, it's me. Maker's holy _balls_ , it's cold out here. Let me in?" Fenris adjusts his posture, slowly straightening from his defensive crouch, and rolls his eyes. Taking in a calming breath, he opens the door.

 

Anders looks pitiful, stray strands of hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. His patchwork coat - shabby as ever - hanging visibly with the weight of excess water, the feathers adorning his shoulders matted and dark. To his credit, he manages a humble smile in spite of it all. Fenris meets his eyes, wills himself not to smirk, and moves aside to let the other man step through the door.

 

"I'll assume you're aware it's the middle of the night?" Fenris starts, but is interrupted before he can say anything else.

 

"You came to see me," Anders says, suddenly sounding irritated for no apparent reason. "You came to see me for help and I tried to kill you." He wrings the water out of the bottom of his coat while he speaks, dripping a puddle onto the carpeted floor. When he looks up to catch Fenris's gaze, the elf sees that his eyes are glazed over.

 

"I... right," he answers, and begins climbing the stairs. "Are you drunk?"

 

"Pffffft." Anders shakes his head emphatically and moves to follow. "Justice doesn't let me get drunk. Varric said that I was just _tipsy_ and then he sent me home and told me to go to bed." He stops abruptly, looking concerned. "But then I couldn't sleep and I remembered that _you_ couldn't sleep either, so I had to come bring you... this." He punctuates the word by thrusting a small pouch in Fenris's direction. When the elf merely raises an eyebrow, he huffs and continues. "It's valerian. It'll calm you down and make you tired. I had some too, but now I feel funny." He frowns and brings trembling fingers to his forehead. "I should have given it to you in the first place instead of being a colossal prig, but--"

 

"Wait," Fenris interrupts, turning again to face him at the top of the stairs. "Did you just say you took valerian after drinking? Is that safe?"

 

"I... not particularly, no. I didn't really think about it." Anders looks to his feet, the expression on his face that of a scorned child.

 

"Of course you didn't. And now you're _here_." Fenris sighs, crosses the short distance between the stairs and the room where he sleeps, and walks through the door. The other man seems to take this as an invitation to follow.

 

"And now I'm here. But you're not yelling at me or trying to kill me like I thought you would. Even though you _hate_ me because I'm a mage and now because I nearly killed you." Anders falls gracelessly into a dusty chair and coughs from within the resulting cloud of filth. Fenris forces himself not to laugh and scoffs instead.

 

"You did not nearly killme," he says, stoking a piece of wood in the fireplace. Finished, he moves to return to his bed.

 

"But I could have if I'd wanted to!"

 

"But you _didn't_ , and I'm fine," he says slowly.

 

Anders doesn't reply, just fidgets with the buckles on his coat for several minutes before throwing a minor tantrum and giving up. He then procedes to attempt pulling it off over his head. Fenris watches, initially concerned and then mildly amused, as the mage eventually works himself free. He wads the material up into a sopping ball and throws it in the general direction of the fire. When he realizes that his remaining shirt didn't fare any better in the rain, he noisily drags the chair closer to the fireplace and drops into it once again. The lines it leaves in the dust covering the floor are crooked, his steps unstable.

 

"I suppose you've decided you're staying a while?" Fenris asks the back of the chair.

 

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Anders asks, ignoring the question completely. "I went to see Varric to see if you'd told anyone what I did. I thought for sure that you'd at least tell _Hawke_ , but you didn't, did you? Why?" He doesn't turn to speak to the other man, eyes focused intently on the fire instead, blinking too often. Fenris frowns.

 

"I don't really..." He scratches the back of his head. "You seemed... remorseful?" Anders is quiet for a moment. Fenris waits.

 

"That's it?" the mage eventually asks. "You've forgiven me because it _seemed_ like I was sorry?" He stands, bracing himself on the arm of the chair after visibly swaying. "You treat me like utter shit every single day for doing nothing, and then I attack you and everything's fine? Do you realize how senseless that is?" Fenris remains seated but narrows his eyes.

 

"If I recall correctly, _mage_ , it was you who -"

 

"Don't you 'mage' me!" Anders moves forward, face resolutely angry despite the unsteadiness of his steps. Fenris stands to meet him, emerald eyes defiant. "You know my bloody name - you're with me every day! You even came to mock me at the clinic in the middle of the night so that Hawke wouldn't be there to control you! Why did you ever come to ask _me_ for help if you..." His voice falters. "Hate me so..."

 

When he falls forward, Fenris moves quickly to catch him. He doesn't know why and he doesn't care to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have someone pass out in every chapter! But not really.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after is not always entirely painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay early chapter! This one fought me like hell for some reason. I hope I won.
> 
> Thank you so much to my colleague and friend, salsgal, for being my sounding board and for listening with interest to my daily rambling about Fenders.  
>    
> Also, thank you all very much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos; you brighten my day!

Hawke runs his fingers nervously along the edges of the box in his hands. All he has to do is knock, something he's done without hesitation hundreds of times before, but today the simple action is daunting. Much like it has been every other day this week. Maybe today he'll muster the courage to close the short distance between his knuckles and Fenris's door, instead of fleeing back to the estate to eat his pastries alone. Again.

 

He has to do _something_. Why he'd opened his stupid mouth and said those words in the first place, he really didn't know. He shouldn't have assumed that Fenris felt the same way just because they'd slept together once. It's not like he'd followed Hawke blindly since they met, or responded to all of his advances by flirting right back, or pinned him against the back of his bedroom door and palmed him through his robes. Except that that's _exactly_ what he did, so how is it that Hawke was supposed to think otherwise?

 

With a heavy sigh, he lifts his hand and knocks. It's an eternity before he finally hears the lock slide open from the other side, and when Fenris opens the door, he looks exhausted, haggard. Hawke berates himself silently for taking pleasure in the fact that Fenris looks like he's been awake for days, too. Then he forces a smile and holds the box of pastries out in front of him.

 

"I come bearing sustenance," he says too cheerfully, "...and my apologies. Can I come in?" The slight lifting at the corners of Fenris's mouth does wonders to lift the fatigue from his face. It does nothing to curtail the butterflies in Hawke's stomach.

 

"You don't have to apologize." Fenris opens the door to let him inside, worriedly looks up the stairs for a split second, and then stands awkwardly, pastries in hand. "Hawke, it was my fault. I shouldn't have... I should have clarified that it-"

 

"I shouldn't have assumed," Hawke interrupts, placing a large hand over one of Fenris's. "I just want things to be normal again. Can things be normal again?" When their eyes meet, he tries his level best not to swoon. So very, _very_ green.

 

"I don't know that they were ever _normal_ exactly, but yes. I'd like that." His face softens; Fenris looks relieved.

 

"Good, because I'd hate to lose someone who can kill things as efficiently as y-"

 

The sound of coughing echoes down from the bedroom and Fenris actually jumps. When Hawke turns his attention away from the stairs and back to the other man, the smile is gone from his face and his jaw is clenched.

 

"Who is that?" He asks through gritted teeth, and instead of waiting for an answer, starts climbing. Fenris follows swiftly, grabbing his arm.

 

"I know what you're thinking and it's not what it seems," he explains to Hawke's rigid back. The other man turns back and glares at him, eyes icy.

 

"And how does it seem, Fenris? Like maybe there's someone _else_ up there that you plan on fucking and then avoiding for a month?" He turns around and keeps climbling, leaving Fenris standing alone on the stairs, somewhere between anger and disbelief.

 

 

***

 

The horde marches, mindless and unrelenting, growing as stragglers converge into the shifting crowd. Wildflowers wilt, blacken, and are ground into putrescent sludge underfoot. Anders chokes on the stench that thickens the air: sickly sweet, the smell of rot and decay. When he trips over his own feet, he doesn't go down; the churning of the horde pushes him ever forward. The voice is calling again - soothing, comforting, promising respite. The voice is lying but Anders is powerless to drown it out, unable to turn and run even if he could think for himself. The horde marches on, archdemon beckoning, and Anders lets himself be lost in a sea of darkspawn. When the archdemon calls again, its voice is different, this time furious.

 

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me!" The voice bellows, closer now than ever before. "Anders? _Anders_?! You hate him! Is this some kind of sick joke? It took _three_ bottles of wine to get you to admit that he's even attractive and now you're _sleeping_ with him?"

 

The archdemon is not yelling. Hawke is, however - gesturing wildly with his arms while Fenris absorbs the sound and tries in vain to interrupt the lexical onslaught. Anders's head spins when he tries to sit upright and he closes his eyes as tightly as he can, trying to quell the dizziness. Slowly, he attempts to piece together fragments of the night before. The Hanged Man. Varric. Feeling relieved, even grateful. Valerian. Rain... He shivers, all at once cold despite the sweat that keeps his hair clinging to his cheeks and forehead.

 

"Um-" He tries to say, but his stomach lurches violently and he heaves over the edge of the bed, a last ditch effort to preserve at least the blankets. Stomach acid burns his throat and the acrid smell of stale alcohol makes his stomach contract again. What comes up is mostly bile. When the spasms are finally over, he looks up to see two sets of eyes fixed on him - one concerned, the other indignant.

 

"My thoughts exactly!" Hawke shouts, storming out of the room and stomping down the stairs. Anders winces when the door slams shut. He watches quietly as Fenris picks up a discarded wine bottle and hurls it at the wall, fragments of glass falling in a cascade to the floor. The warrior paces for several minutes, scowling. Eventually he slides his back down the wall to sit with his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. Anders doesn't know if he should speak.

 

"I should go," he says under his breath, and pushes the blankets back. Fenris looks up at him, expression decidedly neutral, and shakes his head so slightly that the action is nearly imperceptible.

 

"You're in no condition to go anywhere and you know it." When he pushes himself to his feet, Anders can't help but notice just how pliant his movements are. "Are you still nauseated?"

 

"I... no. I'm sorry about your carpet." Anders offers a weak smile. "Have I mentioned that I love what you've done with the place?" Fenris snorts and leaves the room. He returns several minutes later with a cup of water and hands it to the mage without really looking at him. Crossing the room swiftly, he turns the single dusty chair halfway around so his back is no longer to the bed and sits down, where he proceeds to stare into space, unblinking.

 

"I'll talk to him," Anders eventually says, breaking the awkward silence. "This is my fault."

 

"No it isn't," Fenris says, sighing.

 

"Is he always that... unreasonable?" the mage asks. Fenris shoots him a wry look in response.

 

"You know him as well as I do." He looks to the floor. Anders wants to say something to the contrary, but for once his judgment seems intact and he keeps his mouth shut instead. Taking small sips of water, he tries to ignore the pounding in his skull.

 

"So... I have a question," he ventures. Fenris half grunts in response, which isn't exactly an objection, so Anders continues.

 

"I remember coming here. And I remember feeling faint, and I _think_ I remember arguing with you - which is not surprising - and then I obviously passed out at some point... but how did I end up in your bed?" For some reason, he can't bring himself to face Fenris when he speaks. Not that he'd notice, anyway; he seems fairly transfixed on the ground.

 

"I put you there," Fenris says simply, then turns with one eyebrow quirked in a nonverbal _why_?

 

"Where did you sleep, then?" Anders asks, deliberately not looking again. What is it that makes those eyes so intimidating?

 

"In the chair."

 

"Oh. You didn't have to do that." He forces himself to make eye contact, feeling slightly ridiculous about his recently developed shyness. "Thank you."

 

Fenris looks back at him, focusing first on one eye and then the other, face carefully blank. When he says "you're welcome" hesitantly, Anders can't help but notice that he turns away. They lapse into silence again until Anders's 'healer' tendencies get the better of him and he hears himself speak.

 

"Are you all right?" He pauses and waits for a reply that doesn't come, then adds "I mean I know we're not the best of friends... or friends at all, really. Or maybe you just hate me and that's fine too, but if you want to ta-"

 

"Mage," Fenris cuts in, and Anders wants to look away - maybe hide - from the intensity of the gaze when he turns to face him. "Stop." Anders frowns slightly, lays his head back down on the pillow and closes his eyes, because apparently this conversation is over.

 

"I do not hate you."

 

Anders doesn't know how to respond to that, exactly, but settles for "Oh." He turns his head in the direction of the chair.

 

"I... thank you for offering, but I'm fine. What happened with Hawke was my decision." Fenris is again looking down, this time drawing invisible lines with the tip of his finger along the ornate arms of the chair. Without his gauntlets on, Anders can clearly see the lyrium brands that adorn his hand almost delicately. Curious, he follows them up the other man's toned arm with his eyes until he realizes what he's doing and looks away abruptly. It occurs to him that for the first time in his presence, the warrior looks almost _vulnerable_. For some reason, this disturbs him.

 

He really doesn't know much about Fenris, not really, except that he claims to hate mages and seems to revel in the violent death of his enemies. Also that he may be an alcoholic, if the numerous empty wine bottles littering the floor are any indication, though maybe that's understandable given his history. The man also appears to have utterly _broken_ Hawke, which is not an easy thing to do.

 

"I suppose I had guessed that from his sensible reaction to my being here this morning," Anders says, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice and failing.

 

To his surprise, Fenris actually chuckles and then turns to look at him, humour still lighting his features. For an instant, Anders is lost in liquid pools of green. He feels himself grinning and just when he thinks he sees Fenris start to do the same, the elf turns hastily away, mumbling something about pastries.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris gets carried away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, a smutty interlude - because that's where my brain was yesterday.

Fenris rolls over onto his back, huffs, and stares up to the decaying ceiling above him. Sleep has proven elusive over the past month for several reasons, and while the one plaguing him today certainly isn't the worst, it's probably the one that he finds the most bothersome. He glances down to the tent he's making of the blankets and curses his own body. It's been like this since the night he went home with Hawke, a long-overlooked physical urge now awake again that he can't seem to silence for all his discipline and self-control. Not a prude by any means and far from innocent, Fenris is irritated mostly by the fact that he has to deal with it himself or pay someone else to do it - something he refuses to do. Knowing that sleep won't come until he deals with the situation, he kicks the blankets down to bunch up around his feet and closes his eyes.

 

 

It's not that Fenris doesn't enjoy touching himself - the opposite is true, in fact. When he first escaped Danarius, he'd reveled in the fact that his body was his own, spent countless hours doing to himself what he found pleasurable for the first time in his life. He'd gotten to know every inch of his own skin, every heated, oversensitive part; the process was emotionally cathartic as much as it was carnal. He had reclaimed himself. Over time, though, the act lost its newness, its excitement. Until Hawke.

 

 

Hawke had given him something about which to fantasize, something to bring back the excitement he'd had in the beginning. The desire grew quickly in Fenris, fed by the other man's flirtatious nature and their constant close proximity until it became almost overwhelming. He'd given in eventually, stopped fighting his obvious attraction and asked nonchalantly one night if he might follow Hawke home from the Hanged Man. It was frantic, the kind of desperate, aggressive sex he'd wanted, _needed_ , but that was all it was. He was remorseful, obviously, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it; in a strange way he was almost proud of himself for doing something _normal_.

 

 

The problem now, of course, is that he can no longer fantasize about Hawke in good conscience. Running the fingers of one hand down his stomach and over the line of his hip, Fenris tries to imagine someone else. He wraps his fingers tightly around his cock, just behind the head, and tries to lose himself to his thoughts. His first stroke is slow, deliberate, and he bites his lip to stop the low growl in his throat.

 

 

_He's with someone pale, lithe, completely different from Hawke's tanned skin and broad shoulders. The man's hair is long, soft, and Fenris grips the back of his head as he feels a tongue lick a broad stripe up the length of his cock. The man's lips are soft, the impossible wet heat of his mouth exactly what Fenris needs, and when he thrusts up into it, there's no objection. Long, slender fingers wrap themselves around the base of his cock and squeeze in time with his thrusts, controlling his depth. He loses track of time, the pressure just enough, the heat absolutely perfect. When he starts to feel a tingling heat spread outward from his groin, the other man pulls back with a delicious pop. He teases, licking and sucking at the head until Fenris wants to beg, and just as he opens his mouth to do so, the other man takes him in all at once. He manages one thrust, two, and then loses himself, coming down the other man's throat. When he finally looks down, the eyes that meet his are a warm amber and the smirk that accompanies them is arrogant, knowing._

 

 

Fenris stares blankly up at the ceiling for several minutes, hand still slick, trying not to consider the implications of what's just happened in his mind. When sleep eventually comes to claim him, his last sleep-addled, mostly incoherent thought is that his pillow smells quite nice.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric brings news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! My sincerest apologies for my unannounced and very unintentional hiatus. I do plan to update more regularly from here forward.

When Anders finally reaches the clinic, he's grateful to find only two patients waiting. Both are simple enough to treat - the kind of minor infection he sees every day, the result of poor Darktown living. Even the smallest wound can turn bad without adequate care and access to clean water, and most of Kirkwall's refugees sadly lack both. Even Lowtown isn't much better.

Yawning, he strips off his coat and places it on the lonely hook above his poor excuse for a bed. When he eventually left Fenris's mansion, he was surprised to find his coat laid out carefully by the fire, warm and dry. That Fenris had taken the time to do something like that was unexpected, to say the least. Anders must have shown that confusion on his face, too, because the other man had given him a puzzled look when he'd said "thank you", voice conveying much more surprise than he'd intended. Really, the elf had surprised him multiple times now.

Anders lies down and closes his eyes to the world, not feeling his best but still infinitely better than when he'd awoken earlier. Why Fenris had been so uncharacteristically... _hospitable_ that morning, he still has no idea. Even after Justice had stricken him down earlier that week, the elf hadn't retaliated. To Anders, the warrior had always seemed a violent person, lacking control, but recently he'd been acting the opposite. What had changed? For some reason, Fenris had opened up to him about Hawke even though they only ever really argued with each other prior to that day. They certainly weren't on friendly terms, anyway. If anyone else had spilled their guts to Anders, he wouldn't have been surprised - people did it all the time. Fenris, however, had always been reluctant to accept healing for even the most life-threatening physical injuries; there was no way Anders could have anticipated that he'd seek _emotional_ support. In total honesty, he'd come to believe that the only thing close to emotion that Fenris possessed was hate.

The part of Anders that's still prideful and selfish, _not_ of Justice, feels sickly satisfied for having cracked the other man's carefully constructed defenses, even if only slightly. At the same time, he can't help but feel badly for Fenris. To the best of his knowledge, the warrior really only associates with Hawke and his friends, and now that things between the two of _them_ are complicated, he probably has no one else. Anders is well enough acquainted with loneliness that he wouldn't wish it upon anybody - prickly and hateful or otherwise, but still...

It occurs to him suddenly that maybe he's misjudged Fenris since the beginning. Surely the elf possesses _some_ redeeming qualities - as free as Hawke can be with his affection, the man appears to be utterly broken this time. In Anders's experience, it takes more than a pretty face to bring down their mutual friend. The man had watched his entire life get swallowed up by the Blight and still came out of it smiling. And while _pretty_ may not be the proper descriptor in this case, Anders can admit that Fenris has his allure. Varric's suggestion that women would flock to the broody elf was hardly unfounded. Even so, appearance alone isn't usually enough to _destroy_ a person. There had to be something more. From what he'd gathered though, sex was all it had been. And it couldn't have been _that_ mind-blowing. 

Anders laughs out loud in his empty clinic at the absurdity of his own fatigued thoughts and rolls over. Before he can consciously realize that he's spent the last hour thinking about _Fenris_ , he drifts to sleep.

***

When Anders wakes up, the clinic is dark and he curses himself for wasting the entire day sleeping. Justice echoes the sentiment from somewhere in the back of his mind and Anders scoffs in defiance at his own thoughts. Still, the clinic is feeling rather stuffy and he himself a little restless, so he resolves to take at least a short walk outside its walls. Staff strapped to his back and head aching mildly thanks to the irregular abundance of sleep, he unlocks the clinic door and swings it open.

Varric stands silently with his massive fist poised to knock, less than a foot in front of him. The squeal that escapes Anders's throat is much higher pitched than he'd like it to be, but he's grateful at least that his heart doesn't thud its way out of his chest like it threatens. Varric actually has the nerve to chuckle.

"What can I say, Blondie? I have the gift of impeccable timing." The bastard actually bats his eyelashes.

"You're likely to have the gift of your _ass_ on fire it you startle me like that again," Anders threatens, breathing deeply in an attempt to settle his nerves. He lowers his arm from where he'd been reaching for his staff and Varric continues in his usual easy humour.

"Oh sure! Here I am coming to deliver on a favour, getting idle threats in return." Anders huffs but says nothing, allowing the dwarf to continue. "I thought you might like to know that there's a mage missing from the Circle," he starts, and Anders has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"Varric, there are _always_ mages missing from the Circle. I _help_ them go missing. I hope you didn't nearly just scare the piss out of me so you could tell me that."

"Testy today, are we? Let me finish and I promise that when I tell this story later, I'll omit your girlish wailing." Anders glares and is silent. "The mage that's gone missing... he was made tranquil a few months ago."

Glare fading and a look of confusion taking its place, Anders reasons aloud. "A tranquil mage wouldn't have any desire to flee. Is he the only one gone?"

"The only one that you didn't help _get_ gone, yes." Varric looks up at him pointedly, "At least the only one I've heard about."

"Please tell me you've got more information than that. A lead? Anything? Tranquil mages don't just go missing. They're hardly adventurous."

"Have some faith, my impatient friend. I had my contacts do some digging. It turns out Knight-Captain Cullen had to turn away a man asking questions a few days ago in the Gallows. Said he was looking to recruit some "talent" to help rebuild in Starkhaven. Claimed he was a Templar. He wanted Enchanters." 

Anders frowns. "Are you suggesting we go speak to Cullen?" Why does everything he does have to involve the bloody templars?

"Already done, Blondie. Looks like our man's holed up in a mansion in Hightown. We can swing by and pick up Hawke on the way. Who knows? Maybe he has sympathetic company." Right. Hawke. Anders reaches his hand out to grasp Varric's already turned shoulder.

"Wait! Did you, uh... already tell Hawke about this?"

Varric raises an eyebrow before answering tentatively, the word more a question than a response, "...No?" 

_Think, Anders, think._ "Oh good! Because I saw him this morning and he mentioned that he wasn't feeling well. He thought maybe he was coming down with something, so I sent him home with some herbs and told him to get some rest. Maker knows he deserves it with all the bullshit he has to deal with." Varric seems to contemplate the response and for a terrifying moment, Anders thinks he's going to call him on the lie.

"I suppose that makes sense. Who should we bring, then? I like to be stealthy and with all due respect, Blondie, you're a little soft."

"Right, because Hawke - who is _also_ a mage, by the way - isn't soft at all." If he sounds bitter it's because he _is_ , though why Fenris's not-quite-personal drama with the man has suddenly changed his opinion of Hawke, he doesn't know. Perhaps it's the fact that he woke up to him screaming and throwing a tantrum like a petulant child. With a headache.

Varric chuckles again and raises his hands in mock defense.

"Whoa now, I meant no offense. Seriously, what's wrong with you today?" He leaves no space for a response, the question apparently rhetorical. "I don't imagine you'd appreciate if I suggested we bring Aveline along?"

Anders scoffs. "She wouldn't come anyway - she doesn't care about the mages' plight." Varric continues as if Anders said nothing at all, talking more to himself than anyone else.

"And Broody's definitely out of the question -"

"Actually!" Anders interrupts a little too quickly and much to Varric's surprise, "If this has anything to do with that blighted collar, he might want to come with us. He was caught, too."

Varric is about to question his logic, but Anders has already started walking in the other direction.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aww, and now they're both brooding," Varric says between chuckles. "We're never going to get anywhere tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos! The notification emails arriving on my phone make me feel loved throughout the day, haha.
> 
> I'm thinking slightly shorter chapters will keep me posting more regularly. Any objections?

Fenris sits languidly, back against the wall and legs splayed out in front of him on the floor, just at the top of the stairwell. It's not much of a change from the marginally less dusty scenery in the bedroom, but a full day in an empty mansion with nothing at all to entertain a person can force one to lower their standards. This cannot continue. If he wants to maintain his sanity and avoid a slow, torturous death due to boredom, he's going to have to fix things with Hawke... or at least attempt to restore civility.

 

At that thought, Fenris takes a long swig from the bottle of wine he's been nursing all evening. Surely in three years he's made a friend other than Hawke to whom he can go for company. All of their friends are shared, however, and that's where the problem lies. He supposes he could still see them separately without causing unnecessary drama - they _are_ adults, for the most part. But who would he really want to see?

 

Aveline is friendly enough, but a little too consumed with her work and hopeless adolescent crushes to be worth bothering. Sebastian always wants to talk about the Maker, and while Fenris can appreciate a good theological discussion as much as the next man, it can be exhausting. Somehow it always ends up a discussion of his past, though all he really wants to do is forget. Varric never takes anything seriously, and Fenris is willing to bet that anything told to the dwarf would soon be common knowledge to the entirety of Kirkwall. The blood mage is out of the question - Fenris is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. Isabela is... pleasant, actually, though he imagines the amount of meaningful conversation the two of them would share would be minimal. Sometimes the way she looks at him makes him feel like a piece of meat, and while the idea of unattached sex isn't entirely without merit, things didn't play out very well the last time he slept with someone. Also, Hawke would lose what little of his sanity that he's managed to maintain.

 

Which leaves... the mage. Fenris takes another long drink from the bottle in his hand, draining half of what remains without actually tasting it. The mage is _not_ an option. At least, up until a few days ago...

 

Someone pounds on the door. Fenris hangs his head for a moment and sighs. Visitors have come to be unpleasant recently, and for a brief, alcohol-ridden moment, he almost hopes that it's slavers again, come to claim him. Moving down the stairs, he laughs breathlessly and waits for the knock to come again before harshly calling " _What_?"

 

Smooth laughter comes from the other side of the door. "Why is everyone in this city so _friendly_ today?" Fenris opens the door and looks at Varric expectantly. "Broody! A pleasure to see you, too." A smirk curls the edges of Fenris's lips until Anders steps into view and their eyes meet. Fenris's expression settles to become carefully blank until a slow grin spreads across the mage's face.

 

"Fenris is always this friendly, Varric. It's why he dresses that way. Has to tone down the inner joy _somehow_."

 

Varric laughs and claps his hands together before turning back to Fenris and raising a single brow, as if issuing a silent challenge.

 

"Yes, well someone had already beaten me to all of the dead birds in Kirkwall," he replies calmly, motioning to Anders's coat, "so I had to go with my _second_ choice." Varric laughs heartily and Anders narrows his eyes to glare at Fenris, though the smile on his face remains.

 

"I'll have you know that they were _Fereldan_ dead birds. Gifts from Ser Pounce-a-Lot." He looks down at his shoulder and juts out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

 

"Aww, and now they're _both_ brooding," Varric says between chuckles. "We're never going to get anywhere tonight."

 

"About that," Fenris says, tugging on his gauntlets before reaching to secure his sword to his back. "Where are we going?"

 

"I'll explain on the way," Varric answers and points to Anders with his thumb. "It'll give him some time to lick his wounds."

 

Anders hangs back a little to collect his thoughts as they walk, Varric chattering on ahead of him. Was it strange that Fenris had agreed to go with them without even knowing where they were headed? Sure, all of Hawke's friends are used to being called on at odd hours to go on any number of questionable errands, but even without Hawke there? The man inspires a sort of blind loyalty that Anders has never really questioned until now.

 

Hawke is kind and helpful, yes, but there has to be something more to it than that. He's charismatic and handsome, easy with his affections, and courageous - if a little foolhardy. He hasn't exactly had an easy life, but it's been a free one, at least, and while Anders certainly doesn't begrudge him his newfound responsibilities as a Prominent Citizen Of Kirkwall, it dawns on him that perhaps he's just a little bit jealous. And where did _that_ come from? Anders is content in his life. He has freedom, even if it does come at a premium. He helps people just the same, and he has lots of people he'd call friends. He may not be as well-off or as openly admired, but having that much attention would be dangerous for a person in his situation, anyway. So what does Hawke have that he doesn't?

 

Ahead, Varric points up a short flight of stairs and the two men turn to see if he's still following. "Did we lose Blondie?"

 

The corner of Fenris's mouth twitches before he speaks. "Maybe his dead Fereldan birds flew him away."


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some hopeful part of his mind scrambles to suggest that they're not real, that they're statues or dolls or some perverse fabrication of his own twisted thoughts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was pretty intimidated writing this because I don't often write action-oriented things, but I think it came out all right. I hope you enjoy it, anyway!
> 
> Thank you all so very much for your kudos and comments and page views! I feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Anders grips the doorknob in his left hand and his staff in his right, poised to attack or defend if necessary. Behind him, Fenris and Varric wait quietly with their weapons drawn. An owl calls from somewhere above, the only sound to break the uncanny silence of Hightown's streets. It's too quiet. The lantern outside the door is lit, oil burning low, but there are no sounds coming from inside the mansion. If it's an ambush, it's been well planned. Glancing first to Varric and then to Fenris, Anders nods and slowly turns the knob. The door is unlocked.

 

Inside, it's black. Anders blinks in the darkness for a moment before pushing a small pulse of mana into his staff, a ball of energy forming to light it's tip. In the pale haze it casts, he sees faces. There are people standing immobile in the dark, lifeless eyes reflecting like glass, faces expressionless. He makes out men and women, humans and elves, kossith - all in the space of a single shaky breath. Some hopeful part of his mind scrambles to suggest that they're not real, that they're statues or dolls or some perverse fabrication of his own twisted thoughts, until a slender elven woman to his right blinks and turns her head. Her lips turn up in a foul parody of a smile while she pulls a hand out from behind her back, bringing the gleaming metal of a knife into the light.

 

Fenris is the first to move, brands igniting as he lashes forward to knock the woman back. The room comes to life behind her, bodies awakening to charge at the three of them, and Varric unleashes a flurry of bolts into the centre of the chaos. Anders breaks free of his own terrified horror and pulls energy from a deep well inside. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up in response to the static energy that charges the air, and forks of lightning strike indiscriminately in the crowd. A man dressed in tattered clothing twitches and then falls, freeing a path for an elderly woman to lunge at Fenris. In a flash of blue-white light, the warrior is half there, half _nowhere_ , but the broad arc he swings with his sword strikes true all the same. She falls with a wet, nauseating _squelch_ in two pieces to the floor, blood speading to taint the fine silk of her dress.

 

Ahead, two elves and a kossith swing their heads suddenly to fix hollow eyes on Anders. When they run forward, he draws a jagged wall of ice with his staff, stopping them dead mid-stride. Thrusting his free hand outward, he wills compacted air into stone and hurls it at the frozen horned giant. Shards of ice burst forth in the air and fall to the ground, littering those that have already fallen. Varric moves behind him on his left and looses a bolt into the throat of an emaciated woman, sending her staggering back to knock into a huddled group of well-adorned men. From the right, Fenris is a blur as he streaks across the empty space and slices diagonally through gilted raiments to sever muscle and bone. Anders ignites the air to rain flames down on the two remaining elves, still frozen in a bizarre display in the centre of the room. When the blast clears, their bodies have crumpled to the ground, steaming from the rapidly melted ice. The room is silent but for the party's heavy breathing, the only remaining evidence of the chaos a heavy littering of bodies on the floor.

 

Bianca is folded and returned to her resting place between Varric's broad shoulders and Anders straightens, lowering his staff once again to his side. Fenris, reflexes flawless, has already secured his sword and is walking back toward the two of them, clearly an elf again but still glowing impossibly. Spattered with blood, jaw clenched tightly, chest rising and falling with deep intakes of breath, the man is all kinds of intimidating. Anders fends off a shiver and counts himself grateful that the elf fights on _their_ side. Lyrium brands fading out instantly, the three of them are once again plunged into darkness. The light at the tip of Anders's staff flickers to life again and he swings it around in search of a lantern. When he finds one, he lights it with a tiny burst of flame from his palm and hears Fenris scoff from behind him. That he's back to judging people after cleaving a woman in two mere moments ago is a testament to the fact that this sort of thing happens _entirely_ too often.

 

"Are you too good to just use a match like the rest of -" Fenris stills suddenly, eyes widening for a split second before his face twists into a mask of rage and he whips himself around, brands flaring. The motion sends his sword clanging to the ground, the sudden cacophony harsh and unnerving. In front of him is a small elven girl, no more than ten, and in his fist he grips her rapidly pounding heart. Fenris cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot react, but he can feel blood running in impossibly hot rivulets down his back. The girl stares up at him with emotionless eyes and bares a grin that's missing teeth. Relentlessly, she stabs at his stomach with the oversized kitchen knife in her hand.

 

Sparing no time for thought, Anders unleashes a focused blast of energy from his mind and sends the girl hurtling backward, stunned. The knife, blade reddened with fresh blood, slips from her grubby little girl fingers as she trips over a lifeless body to the ground. Anders runs to draw a crude glyph in the puddled blood on the floor with his staff. The girl stills.

 

Behind him, Fenris slumps to one knee with the last measure of his self-control before allowing himself to fall completely, face to the ground. On his back, the leather of his armor is split to expose a nauseating amount of gore. A gash starting just below his right shoulder blade runs down in a slightly crooked line toward his spine. It's deep and Fenris is bleeding too fast, the life literally hemorrhaging out of him. Anders shouts _at_ Varric, not _to_ him, eyes focused on the parted flesh as he fumbles blindly for a lyrium potion in the pouch at his hip. "Do something with her!" He shouts, and to his credit, the dwarf knows better than to ask for further direction.

 

The potion is cool and tingles on his tongue like it always does, but despite its restoration of the essence that makes him what he is, its far from refreshing. Crouching over Fenris, Anders pulls the split leather gingerly away from the worst of the damage. His mouth feels illogically dry, tongue thick and clumsy as he forms the quiet syllables of a familiar spell and feels his palms heat with healing magic. The process is second nature to him now and as his hands slide comfortably over ruptured flesh, he's relieved to feel that Fenris's unique draw on his mana is the same as always. He lets his eyes fall closed and feels for the damage rather than trying to see it, his natural sense augmented by what he can only assume is the lyrium woven into the elf's body. The gash is deep, the surrounding tissue marred, mangled, but it knots together all the same. The ease and speed with which it does so is astonishing to Anders every time.

 

The first time he'd touched Fenris with his magic had been in just as panicked a state. Hawke had dragged the two of them and _Sebastian_ of all people along on another of his fool errands to the Bone Pit. The trip had been disastrous as always, the group mowing down a horde of undead and then emerging from the mines only to be helpfully ambushed by looters. The situation wouldn't have been so dire if Fenris, stubborn bastard that he was, hadn't refused healing after the first battle. To him, it had been a small wound on his chest that he could bandage and treat when they got back to Kirkwall, the danger already over. In reality, it had been a hindrance enough to get him even _more_ wounded - incapacitated actually, and when Hawke had pleaded with Anders to ignore Fenris's bullheaded protests and please, _please_ just heal him, he'd told the elf plainly just how daft he thought he was. It was in the middle of a typical Anders stream-of-consciousness rant that the sensation had caught him off guard. Hands poised above a significant tear in the flesh of Fenris's stomach, he'd unleashed a single wave of healing energy to test that the other man wasn't, in fact, going to sever his limbs for trying to help.

 

That small amount of magic had been pulled out of him with such force that he'd nearly toppled over. Focused on his task, he'd somehow kept it flowing - carefully controlled while flesh knitted back together and pulverized tissue righted itself just under tanned skin. The draw had been magnetic, provocative, so enticing that he hadn't wanted to stop - something that he could now freely admit to himself but that he'd never say aloud. The mana had coursed out of him in an easy stream that ebbed and pulsed along with the blood in his veins, waking every nerve ending in his body and rendering him effectively silent. The lyrium had reverberated through him completely and left his heart fluttering helplessly in his chest like that of a maiden in a children's tale... only far less innocent. To the thoughts in his head that could only have belonged to Justice, he'd rationalized that it was a physical response to the lyrium and had nothing to do with Fenris himself, which meant he was _not_ being... inappropriate.

 

Perhaps the strangest thing of all though was that the act hadn't left him drained as he'd expected. Instead he'd felt rejuvenated, clear-headed, awake. Alert enough certainly to notice that Fenris's breathing had sped up rather than slowed down to a relaxed pace like most of the people he healed. That his face was flushed and his pupils dilated, too. If Fenris had felt anything like Anders had, however, he'd said nothing. He simply got up and brushed himself off, nodded curtly in what Anders chose to accept as thanks, then joined Hawke and His Holy Halfwit in pillaging bodies. If either man had anything to say about the experience, it had gone unsaid.

 

"Mage?" Fenris is asking, and Anders snaps back to himself. The elf is sitting in front of him on the floor, absently running his fingers over the holes sliced into the stomach of his armor and frowning. Always frowning. "Mage! Where is Varric? What happened to the girl?"

 

From somewhere nearby, Varric answers for himself. "I'm in the kitchen. You two need to see this!" Then as an afterthought, "You all right, Broody?"

 

"Fine," Fenris calls, rising fluidly to his feet and brushing himself off in a familiar action before crossing the room toward the direction of Varric's voice. Anders hoists himself up much less gracefully and moves to follow, bending first to retrieve his discarded staff from the floor. When he looks up from scanning the intricately carved wood for damage, he's surprised to see the other man waiting for him by the doorway. Taking quick strides to catch up, he unconsciously mumbles an apology for making him wait. When Fenris speaks, his voice is quiet but clear. Confident. "Anders?"

 

The mage's eyes snap up from their task of finding an uncluttered path across the floor to meet striking emerald.

 

"Thank you."


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why had he come with them? Boredom is one thing and loneliness another, but willfully following the abomination into a well-laid trap set for the templars could be called nothing but foolishness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for reading. I appreciate your comments, kudos and pageviews so much more than you could possibly know!

"I'll bet these belonged to those people," Varric says, craning his neck back for a better look into the cabinets. The kitchen is spotless, the subtle sheen of the granite floor a harsh juxtaposition to the carnage with which they've just painted the main hall. The wooden counters are well-worn but immaculate, and if Varric hadn't taken the time to open the cabinet doors, the room would appear innocuous.

 

 

Stacked neatly in even rows on the shelves are dozens of vials filled with blood. With the cabinet doors open a chill spreads slowly through the kitchen and Fenris thinks that if he were to squint his eyes _just_ so, he may be able to see the fine mist he can feel seeping into the air. The cold brings goosebumps to life on the bare skin of his arms and he barely suppresses the shiver that wracks him from the inside out. Somehow these surroundings seem familiar, but as is the case with so many of his memories, clarity is lost behind a thick curtain in the back of his mind. The feeling is infuriating even after years of suffering it, and his hands close into tight fists at his sides.

 

 

"Blood magic," Anders says, spitting out the words as if they're toxic. "It figures." The mage reaches in to wrap long, pale fingers around a vial and then turns it over in his hands in examination. His lips turn down in a frown as he looks it over. "They almost look like phylacteries, but..." Suddenly he lets go of the vial, allowing it to fall to the ground and shatter with a high _pop_ that's almost enough to make Fenris jump. Nerves frayed, he growls low in his throat. It's a feral response that he hopes is inaudible until Anders looks at him and raises an eyebrow, telling him otherwise.

 

 

"Almost?" Varric questions, and Anders looks back to the mess on the floor and frowns again. The dark pool of liquid spreads and glimmers with shards of broken glass.

 

 

"Phylacteries hold mage blood. Those people weren't mages."

 

 

"They were possessed, right?" Varric asks.

 

 

"Enthralled," Fenris hears himself say, irritation seeping into his tone. "Puppets for mages to control."

 

 

" _Blood_ mages," Anders corrects automatically, shooting Fenris a brief look that he finds difficult to read. Not his usual defiance, but something more. _Hurt?_ "You've seen this before?" the mage asks. Fenris nods.

 

 

"In Minrathous. The magisters mix the blood with their own in order to gain control. Perfect slaves," he spits, the word perennially bitter on his tongue. "They cannot talk back or disobey."

 

 

All at once, Fenris wants to leave this place. Why had he come with them? Boredom is one thing and loneliness another, but willfully following the abomination into a well-laid trap set for the templars could be called nothing but foolishness. And when had he started following the mage, anyway? That he had trusted Hawke was bad enough, the choice clearly becoming more of a mistake by the day. Either the Maker has a sick sense of humour or Fenris is a glutton for punishment. Likely it's both. "Are we nearly done here?"

 

 

"What about the girl?" Varric asks slowly, tone careful.

 

 

"The girl! Where is she?" Anders asks, sounding suddenly concerned. Had he forgotten about her as Fenris had, distracted by the process of healing? _Of saving my life,_ an unhelpful thought suggests in the back of Fenris's mind, and he tries to shake it away. What had happened to the girl that he couldn't bring himself to harm even as she tried her best to rip him apart? A part of him that he's surprised to find still exists - buried as it is under years of pent-up resentment - hopes that she's somehow unharmed. The mage had merely immobilized her, hadn't he? Before he ran and dropped to his knees to begin healing?

 

 

When Fenris had fallen, his vision was blurred around the edges and the room had tilted sickly before him, pulsing in and out of focus with the hammering in his chest. After that, it had been nothing. Not blackness or white, just _void_ until a familiar tingling warmth had brought back first his awareness of flesh, of bone, of _life_ \- and then of a pleasure so consuming that his broken body ached no longer in pain, but in yearning. He will never admit what healing magic does to him, not even to himself. If he had to guess though, Fenris would wager that the mage already knows. The avoidance of eye contact every time he's been injured enough to require magical treatment, the subtle flush of Anders's skin as he works... it has to be indicative of _something_. So far as Fenris can tell, the reaction is unique to him.

 

 

"I put her in the pantry," Varric says to Anders, sounding sheepish, and then shrugs. "I didn't know what else to do with her and you were busy with Broody at the time. She's out cold but she's still breathing. Is there nothing we can do for her?"

 

 

For some reason both men turn to regard Fenris, silently asking for his opinion. He stiffens and narrows his eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

 

 

"She nearly killed you," Anders answers, as if that somehow has any bearing on the decision. "What do you want us to do with her?"

 

 

"You're asking me if I want to exact vengeance on a small child? Surely you're kidding."

 

 

"Right," the mage says quietly, turning toward the only other door leading off of the kitchen.

 

 

"Wait!" Varric interjects, and Anders stops walking immediately. It's a reflex they've all picked up in their dealings with Hawke; when a rogue tells you to wait, you wait. "What if she's still... you know... homicidal?"

 

 

"Break the vials." Fenris states simply. "If one of them contains her blood, breaking it should sever any control."

 

 

"Are you sure?" Varric asks doubtfully.

 

 

"No. Do you have a better plan?"

 

 

"It makes sense," Anders says, grabbing for his staff. "Stand back."

 

 

In a well-practiced movement, he swings the twisted length of wood in a wide arc that fractures glass. Blood spatters, perfuming the air with the sour metallic smell of copper, and almost instantly the sound of sobbing starts from inside the pantry. Before Fenris can react, the mage is moving across the room and opening the door. When the girl looks up at him, her eyes widen in shock and she ceases crying just long enough to take in a deep breath of air. And then she screams.

 

 

"NOOOO! SHEMLEN!"

 

 

Anders brings his hands to his ears and backs away, wincing at the sound. "Maker's breath that's loud."

 

 

"Broody, maybe you --" Varric starts saying, but Fenris is already moving toward the girl, who's now curled into a tiny ball in the corner of the pantry, calling for her mother and father.

 

 

"Hush," he says, trying to keep his voice low but not knowing what to say. When he crouches down a few feet from her, she peeks out at him from between her fingers and stops wailing barely long enough for him to speak. "We're not going to hurt you," he tries, and mercifully his words seem to calm her a little. The girl's green eyes are huge, wet, and her bottom lip trembles while she looks at him. "We're here to help you. Do you understand?" When she nods hesitantly, he continues. "Good. My name is Fenris. Are you hurt?" For a moment, the girl just stares at him. He's about to ask the question again when she uncurls herself just enough to hold out her right hand. There are clean slices across her palm and her fingers tremble slightly when she extends her arm. Fenris hopes she can't remember the knife that caused the wounds. "May I see?" he asks softly, gingerly removing his gauntlets, and when she doesn't pull her hand away from his grasp he offers her a small smile. She sniffles in response. "Can you tell me your name?" The girl looks down for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

 

 

"Ophelia," she says quietly. "From the alienage."

 

 

"Ophelia," Fenris repeats, and takes her wounded hand in between his own. "Ophelia, my... _friend_ here is a healer." He motions with his head to where Anders is standing several paces behind him, disbelief clearly written in the open gape of his jaw. "He can make your hand feel better. Would it be all right if he has a look at it?" The girl's eyes shift to survey the mage's face, and thankfully he has the presence of mind to close his mouth and give her a smile that Fenris can only really describe as _warm_. It lifts his features and reaches his eyes, bringing to life a golden honey brown. Fenris's eyes snap suddenly back to Ophelia.

 

 

"It won't hurt a bit, I promise." Anders remains where he is, not moving forward until the girl nods minutely, and then he lowers himself at her side. "May I?" he asks Fenris, who gives him a stern look before carefully placing her small hand in his. _Do not hurt her._ The look Anders gives back is one of offended reproach. _Really Fenris, I can handle this._

 

 

At the first spark of magic Ophelia hurls herself bodily against Fenris, clinging as tightly as possible with her one free arm. His eyes widen in shock and he bristles visibly before regaining himself and tentatively placing a hand on her back in comfort. Behind him, Varric chuckles. In front of him, Anders smirks.

 

 

Fenris decides that he's _never_ following a mage anywhere again.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence falls again, only marginally less awkward now that the both of them are eating. Anders thinks idly that pears are delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very, very much for reading! I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter.

"Are you all right, Fenris?" Anders asks from a few feet behind, dragging his heavy boots through the dust of the Lowtown street as he walks.

 

"I'm fine," Fenris says from where he's walking briskly ahead, apparently not lacking energy even after being up all night. Resting just a breath away from the spiked leather of his left shoulder is Ophelia's head, her pale face a delicate contrast to the harshness of his armor. Her freckled arms and legs are wrapped about the elf haphazardly, and every few seconds her eyelids seem to get too heavy for her to handle. Fenris walks stiffly, clearly uncomfortable, his arms wrapped behind him to support her weight. His expression suggests that if there had been any other way to convince the girl to come with them, he'd have gladly chosen it. 

 

 _"I will not be ridden like a halla,"_ he'd whispered harshly while out of the girl's earshot, and then glared when Anders had the audacity to laugh. Varric had had to remind him of Ophelia's initial reaction to being approached by a human before he'd finally conceded to the girl's request. Varric had also been the one to talk Fenris into leaving his sword behind when neither of them could comfortably carry it. Anders had surrounded it with glyphs of repulsion, and after a lengthy conversation wherein he was forced multiple times to explain to Fenris that _yes,_ he was sure they would hold, the four of them had finally left to bring the girl home.

 

"You lost a lot of blood," Anders says simply. Varric walks quietly alongside him, his usual chatty nature subdued by fatigue. He follows their exchange silently but not without interest.

 

"I often do," Fenris says quietly without turning back. "What of it?"

 

"I was just wondering if you're feeling all right, that's all. You're acting a little strangely." 

 

Fenris is quiet for a moment before sighing; "Can this conversation not wait, mage?"

 

"You're awfully quiet," Anders says, ignoring his protest, and then draws out the silence in mock contemplation before continuing. Varric eyes him suspiciously but says nothing. "How's your back?"

 

"It's _fine,_ " Fenris says, tone growing agitated. "And you _know_ it's fine because you healed it. What are you getting at?"

 

"Nothing," Anders answers. He holds up his hands palms forward, faking offense. "I just wanted to make sure that carrying around our little friend isn't going to injure you further. You seem a little uncomfortable."

 

Varric chuckles; Fenris growls and picks up the pace.

 

***

 

Ophelia's home in the alienage is really more _hole_ than house, and because Anders's thoughts are occasionally horrible beyond measure, he can't help but compare it in his mind to the pantry in which Varric had locked the poor girl only a few hours earlier. And while he may be exaggerating somewhat in that comparison, the space that houses Ophelia's family really isn't very big at all. The smile on her mother's face at the sight of her, however - true relief if Anders has ever seen it - is still enough to make him envy the family life she must have. The tears in her father's eyes are really only icing on the cake, and so to stop his thoughts from getting progressively more maudlin, he busies himself with a healer's examination of the girl's grandmother, Lydia.

 

The woman is ancient but her mind is sharp, and after a short conversation about the nature of her chronic leg pain, Anders goes to work pushing warm waves of healing energy into the inflamed joints of her knees. Small talk flows easily and he loses himself in his work as he so often does, the mending of tissue and pulsing of energy a kind of comforting hypnosis. When Lydia mentions his companions, he suddenly remembers the reason he's in the alienage in the first place.

 

"Your friend watches you very closely," she says, abruptly changing the subject. Anders turns to watch Varric where he's speaking animatedly with Ophelia's parents, the girl passed out and already deep in slumber on a flimsy bed nearby.

 

"Who, Varric? He watches everyone; it's what he does. And then of course he tells everyone he knows whatever it is you're up to. It's part of his charm." He smirks, the expression tugging at his lips and rendering his smile endearingly lopsided. Lydia smiles back at him, the glint in her eye conspiratory.

 

"Not the dwarf. I know his kind." She shakes her head slightly. "I meant your good-looking elven friend." She motions with her head toward Fenris, who's standing in his typical stoic fashion by the door, observing the others' social interactions with a scowl. Whether the expression pertains to the current situation, Anders doesn't know; the man is perpetually scowling. For all he knows, Fenris could be thinking of kittens and still glaring daggers. "He's been following your every move since you got here."

 

"Who, Fenris? There's probably too much happy in here for him to handle. Either that, or he thinks I'm about to burn your house to the ground. He doesn't like me much." Anders stands, absent-mindedly brushing at his coat, having done all he can for the elderly woman in terms of healing. There are some things beyond the power of magic.

 

"Oh?" She smiles brightly and turns to look at Fenris, the skin around her eyes and mouth crinkling, adding even more years to her already weathered face. Fenris narrows his eyes but holds her gaze. Apparently not offended that her smile isn't returned, she looks back up at Anders and raises a single eyebrow. "You've a lot to learn about reading people, young man."

 

"Ready, kids?" Varric calls, not bothering to lower his voice. Ophelia sighs contentedly in her sleep, both parents seated on the edge of her bed, teary-eyed and smiling. "Let's get out of here before my insides get too squishy to hold me up."

 

Outside the Hanged Man, Varric stops his lumbering steps and turns to face Fenris. "I don't suppose you feel like paying Hawke a visit on your way back home, do you? He'll want to know about this, and I'm beat."

 

Fenris takes in a breath to speak, but for a moment the words don't come and he simply stands there, dumbfounded. "I suppose I could--"

 

"I'll do it," Anders interjects, catching Fenris's eyes for a fraction of a second before they turn to examine the ground. "I should check on him anyway - see how he's feeling, you know. And disable those glyphs for Fenris."

 

Varric is already halfway through the door, a lazy wave signaling his goodbye. Anders turns on his tired heels in the direction of Hightown. "Shall we?" he asks, unsure of what else to do.

 

Fenris motions with his arms for the mage to go ahead, eyes still fixed on packed dirt. "By all means."

 

***

 

"You really don't have to do this," Fenris says after clearing his throat. The statement is almost lost in the bustle of the Hightown market, and if Anders hadn't been focused completely on the man with whom he's been walking for the past 20 minutes - in incredibly awkward silence, he can't help but notice - he may have missed it entirely.

 

"I told you already that this was my fault in the first place. At least let me try to clear things up. Hawke isn't completely unreasonable; he's just... prone to emotional outbursts, that's all."

 

"I'm aware," Fenris says, his tone dark.

 

"I suppose it's understandable, given the shit he's had to deal with. He hasn't exactly had it easy these last few years."

 

"Still no reason for him to jump to the ridiculous conclusion that you and I are _bedding_ one another." Fenris shakes his head, frustrated. Anders winces slightly at his implication but says nothing, stopping instead to fish a copper out of the pouch at his waist and flick it to a man behind a large fruit stand. With deft fingers, he picks up an apple and holds it forward in offer to Fenris, who nods and snatches it easily out of the air mid-throw. The silence falls again, only marginally less awkward now that the both of them are eating. Anders thinks idly that pears are delicious.

 

"I should accompany you," Fenris offers, the two of them only a short distance from the Amell estate. Anders stops walking for a moment and just turns to look at him, noting silently the defeated slump of his shoulders. His greatsword missing and a half-pained expression on his face, the elf once again looks defenseless, vulnerable, and in a moment of insanity Anders reaches his right hand forward and rests it on Fenris's shoulder. Verdant eyes first flash anger, then hesitation, before settling on a careful neutrality, and the abruptly halted pulse of energy that only barely fails to ignite the elf's lyrium brands steals the air from Anders's lungs.

 

"It's fine," he says, unable to conceal his breathlessness. "I'll take care of it."

 

Fenris narrows his eyes in rumination before nodding once as if to confirm something to himself. Tentatively, he lifts a gauntleted hand to brush Anders's forearm. "Thank you," he says quietly before turning to walk away. "You've saved me twice today."


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was wondering when one of you would show up," Hawke starts as he takes a seat in the library. "I'll be honest, I didn't expect it to be you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say it every time, but thank you from the bottom of my girlish heart for taking the time to read this story!
> 
> An extra thanks goes out to my partner, who bought me a new laptop for my birthday. Now I can write at my leisure without having to contend with an ancient desktop computer and an uncomfortable chair. 
> 
> Big thanks also to salsgal for helping me to verbalize Fenris's feelings over email at work!

Fenris walks away quickly, trying to keep his steps regular and even. His body wants to run, to _flee_ actually, but he didn't carve such a bloody path to freedom only to give in to every embedded behaviour. In his mind, the primary focus is simply getting home; if he has to panic, he can do it there - in solitude.

 

Rounding a corner, he feels several sets of eyes fall upon him, a normal enough occurrence in Hightown but today made even more unnerving by his tumultuous mental state and lack of sleep. Scowling at his onlookers in response, he forces himself to make eye contact, to show defiance, to move forward. He wonders for the millionth time if he'll ever truly be free of the prying eyes, of the judgment, of the shame. Of the embarrassment taught to him by his _master._

 

When he gets home and slams the door behind him, the first place Fenris heads is the cellar. His bare feet leave perfect imprints in the thick layer of dust that coats the stairs, evidence of his path that goes unnoticed in the dark. By now he knows the mansion well enough to navigate without light, the wine cellar well enough to navigate without light even when _drunk,_ and in a few quick strides he's got a cool, smooth bottle in each hand. The tips of his gauntlets clink familiarly against the glass as he strides back up the stairs, trying his best to slow the frantic thoughts in his mind.

 

_Desiring company is normal,_ he reasons to himself as he uncorks the first bottle and falls unceremoniously into his favourite chair. The fact that he misses his time spent with Hawke does not mean that he's become dependent. It doesn't mean that he's lost himself or willingly given his freedom to someone else. _Right? Of course not._ He takes a swig of the wine, noticing but not particularly caring that the liquid is far too sweet for his liking.

 

People have friends, make acquaintances, form bonds; he'd seen it earlier that day in the alienage. Anders and Varric had simply walked in and initiated conversation without any thought. Fenris himself had stood there awkwardly, ever the silent bodyguard - a fixture rather than a person, rather than one of them. He drinks again, wrinkling his nose at the cloying sweetness that washes over his tongue. As a slave, he'd never been taught social graces, had never been allowed even to _socialize._ That interaction comes so naturally to all of his companions is yet another frequent reminder that he was never supposed to be anything but an object, a belonging. 

 

Tilting his head back, Fenris downs half the bottle in a single pull that warms on its way down. The wine is too much, excessively saccharine, but it will serve its purpose. He slumps further down in the chair, lets loose a heavy sigh, and tries not to question how the fate of his relationship with one mage came to rest in the hands of yet another.

 

***

 

Anders stands in the sitting room of the Amell estate, waiting for Bodahn to return with either Hawke or the news that the man doesn't want to see him. He hates that the dwarf waits on him despite his protests - longs for the days when finding a person was as simple as knocking on a door. Hawke's mabari, Damage, sits no more than two feet from him, looking up expectantly.

 

"I'm ignoring you, you know," Anders says to the dog without looking. Damage rises and gingerly closes his jaw, jowls and all, around the loose fabric of the mage's sleeve. When he tugs gently, Anders frowns down at him. "What do you want from me? I happen to enjoy that sleeve just fine where it is, thank you."

 

"Don't tell me you've tired of antagonizing Fenris already," Hawke says, leaning casually against the doorframe that separates the sitting room from the main hall. "I don't think you'll find Damage to be a very good substitute. He's a lot less bitey."

 

Anders turns to Hawke, shakes his arm free of the dog's grip, and offers a tentative smile. He relaxes a little when Hawke returns it and motions with his head for him to follow. The other man is wearing finery, simple but well-crafted, and despite having seen Garrett dressed casually on countless occasions before, Anders is still put off by how _normal_ he looks without his father's striking enchanted robes.

 

"I was wondering when one of you would show up," Hawke starts as he takes a seat in the library. "I'll be honest, I didn't expect it to be you."

 

Anders sits, sighing a little too loudly as his body relaxes into the plush fabric of the chair. All at once, his exhaustion catches up with him. "I think he's afraid you'll turn him away, honestly." The two of them are silent for a few moments and Anders has to resist the urge to close his eyes and nod off.

 

"Fair enough," Hawke says. "I wasn't exactly reasonable the last time we saw each other. I'm sorry you had to see that." Anders doesn't respond, just waits for him to continue. "I know you're not sleeping together. I doubt you'd be up and walking about if you'd tried." He smiles wanly, looking apologetic.

 

"You seem to have survived it," Anders says, attempting a tired smirk. Hawke chuckles humourlessly.

 

"Barely. Apparently my brain took some damage." He sighs, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "How's he doing?" Anders feels some tension seep out of his shoulders at the realization that things between the two of them might be all right after all.

 

"He feels horrible about what happened, I know that much. I don't know that I've ever seen him so... unsure of himself. Not openly. I mean he's _fine_ , but..."

 

"I didn't know the two of you spent any time together," Hawke interrupts.

 

"We don't." Anders looks at him pointedly. "Not before now, anyway. Don't tell me you're actually _jealous._ He came to me because he wasn't sleeping. I was there delivering some herbs." Hawke turns away abruptly, and Anders can't tell if it's in anger or in shame. Maybe _not_ so all right, on second thought.

 

"An overnight herb delivery?" Hawke turns back, eyes narrowed. For some reason, Anders feels his hands close into fists where they rest on the arms of the chair.

 

"Honestly, Hawke? You're making this about _you?_ " His voice rises, incredulous despite his best effort. "I was sick and overtired and I passed out. He was kind enough to put me to bed and let me sleep. It wasn't anything quite so clandestine and sordid as you might believe."

 

"Since when has Fenris ever been kind to _you?_ " Hawke snaps, but the moment the words leave his mouth, his face visibly sours.

 

"Perhaps since the only other friend he thought he had turned into a petulant child!" Anders moves to get up and leave, the muscles in his legs protesting and slow to obey.

 

"Anders, wait. I'm sorry, I just --"

 

  
"You just _what?_ Do you think he belongs to you now? That you have some right to control him?" The mage's voice cracks and deepens as he stands, and he fights to restrain the Fade energy that pushes at the back of his mind. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to reason with the spirit. _This isn't our place! It's a simple romantic squabble, nothing more. Why do you concern yourself?_

 

When Hawke's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, Anders snaps back to himself, fully in control once again. Shaking his head, he pulls free of the other man's grasp and brings his hands up to cover his face. He moves on shaky feet to the other side of the room. "I'm sorry, Hawke."

 

"It's all right." His tone is quiet, concerned, interlaced with a barely discernible amount of fear. "Are you okay?" He follows, rests his hand on Anders's shoulder again and tightens his grip when the other man tries to pull away. "Anders, it's fine. It's okay."

 

Eventually Anders's voice comes again, small and hollow. "He was a _slave,_ Hawke. He just didn't want to be alone anymore. You have to forgive him for this."

 

Hawke takes Anders's arm, supporting his weight as he leads him back to the chair. Sighing, he sits down again. "I know. I'm sorry."

 

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

 

"I know." The two of them sit in silence, absently examining separate parts of the carpet. After several minutes, Anders remembers the reason he came to visit in the first place.

 

"Do you remember that day we were ambushed by Tal-Vashoth?"


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's known the man for years, has spent countless hours travelling in close proximity, and yet he can only recall a handful of times when they've spoken without bickering. All at once he feels ashamed of his own inability to swallow his pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping the length of this chapter will make up for its lateness. Forgive me, pretty please?
> 
> I can't get over the number of page views from the last chapter to this one. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! It means a great deal to me.

Anders sits quietly and waits for Hawke to respond, hoping he's somehow already come up with an idea of what they should do about the blood mage... situation. The hope isn't entirely unrealistic; Hawke has a knack for devising plans off the top of his head. Anders has an idea it's how he ended up the unofficial leader of what is definitely Kirkwall's most impressive group of outcasts.

 

Hawke had listened intently as he was filled in on what the others found at the abandoned estate, not stopping Anders to ask questions or further explain anything, his gaze steady and unwavering. In general, Hawke is direct with his words - sometimes to the point of bluntness. He's also not one to talk in circles, and yet he somehow always ends up getting exactly what he needs out of nearly everyone. Underneath his good humour and occasionally tasteless wit is a quiet intensity that Anders still sometimes finds unnerving even after three years of knowing him. He supposes it's what helped the other mage to escape the Blight and the hopeless life of a refugee where countless others had failed. It's also why he's sitting on the edge of his seat now and holding his breath in expectation of a well-calculated response.

 

"Do you have a thing for him?" Hawke finally asks, his voice casual. For a moment, Anders has no idea what the other man is talking about. If he looks tired and clueless, it's because he is. He expresses as much.

 

"What?"

 

"Fenris." Hawke says, without any extrapolation and as if his meaning is obvious. When Anders just looks at him, clearly lost, he rolls his eyes and asks again, each word agonizingly drawn out. "Do _you,_ " he says, actually pointing, "Have a thing. For _Fenris_?"

 

Anders looks at him incredulously for what feels like an uncomfortably long time before asking, "What in blazes are you talking about?"

 

"It's just a question," Hawke says, raising his hands in defense and suddenly getting up from his chair.

 

"It's an insane question!" Anders says, his voice becoming shrill for some reason, and then in the same breath, "What in the world would give you _that_ idea?"

 

Hawke smiles softly, not his usual cocksure grin but a sad, broken shadow of an expression that strikes Anders's chest with a harsh pang he can't quite identify. He chuckles mirthlessly under his breath as he steps away and then stops in the doorway, not bothering to look back when he speaks. "Anders, you just talked about him nonstop for half an hour. You didn't even mention that Varric was _with_ you until you realized that someone had to have locked the girl in that closet."

 

"It was the pantry," Anders offers weakly, very much confused. Hawke doesn't appear to notice.

 

"Before that, you nearly lost control of Justice because I expressed an interest in how Fenris is doing. You only _came_ here because you wanted to make things less awkward for him. In fact, I bet you volunteered to do it! You're falling asleep while you're talking and you _still_ plan to go see him after this so that the two of you can go retrieve a sword that he has no use for anyway because he's probably sleeping like a _sane_ person!" He pauses to catch his breath before he continues, turning back to find a puzzled expression on Anders's face. His momentary anger fades, replaced by disbelief. "Maker, Anders, did you really not know?"

 

Anders remains seated, blinks once, opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. On his second try, the words come and he finds that his voice is surprisingly steady. "Hawke, that's absurd. It's _Fenris_. He despises me."

 

"He does not despise you," Hawke says, his tone wary. 

 

Anders gets up and walks past the other man into the main hall, where he suddenly finds himself under the scrutiny of two very attentive dwarves and a mabari hound. He turns back, steps a little too far into Hawke's personal space, and speaks as calmly as he can manage. "I do not have a _thing_ for Fenris."

 

"All right," Hawke says, face cautiously blank, and then apparently abandons the topic altogether. "Do you think we could all meet here in the morning? Have some breakfast and then go see if there's anything left at the mansion? I can let Varric know if you don't mind telling Fenris."

 

Anders nods once, turns around, and strides away. On his way out, he manages to call "See you tomorrow, Hawke!"

 

When he steps outside into the bright sunlight of the Hightown square, Anders's sleep-deprived eyes take a few moments to adjust. It's a warm day, hot in the sun but with a gentle breeze and people mill about, stopping to make polite conversation and to exchange pleasantries. When an elderly gentleman stops to look at Anders with disdain, he finds himself missing the anonymity of Darktown. He walks slowly, both in an attempt to spare the stiff muscles in his legs and also to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The short stroll is mercifully uneventful, save a Sister outside the chantry who stops him to ask for a donation. He bites his tongue as he fishes a few coppers out of his pocket, silencing the voice in the back of his mind (his own or Justice's, he does not know) that tries to argue in favour of keeping those coins for the refugees. Self-preservation dictates that he not make waves, however, so he simply forces a smile while the Sister thanks him and continues on his way.

 

It isn't until he's standing in the shaded alcove before Fenris's door that he allows himself to consider Hawke's words. What he had insinuated was ridiculous, of course - having a _thing_ for Fenris would be very much like having a thing for poking the Knight-Commander with a stick. He had only reacted as strangely as he did because the question was so random. Anders shakes his head, scoffs, and knocks on the door. From inside, he hears a muttered _venhedis_ followed by a thud, then soft footfalls on what he can only presume is the staircase. When he catches himself grinning, he reasons that it's simply because Tevinter swear words are funny. It has nothing to do with the fact that he finds Fenris's perpetual grumpiness to be increasingly endearing as time goes by. The unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach isn't nervousness, it's hunger - and it most definitely is not excitement because he _does not have a thing for Fenris._

 

When the door swings open to reveal Fenris dressed only in his leggings, the air that's stolen from Anders's lungs is the result of seeing the lyrium tattoos in their entirety for the first time - and nothing more.

 

"Aaand the mage is here," Fenris says flatly, making a dramatic sweeping motion with his arm that can really only be interpreted as 'come in'. He doesn't wait to see if Anders follows; simply turns and starts making his way back up the stairs, his steps a little clumsy. Anders tries his level best not to stare but ultimately fails, his eyes following the smooth curve of Fenris's spine to pause at the top of his leggings, admiring the dimples that peek over the waistband. He forces himself to speak.

 

"Why is it that I get called 'mage' but Hawke gets to keep his name?"

 

"Foreign names are complicated," Fenris replies, a smirk on his lips that Anders can't see.

 

"Are you drunk?" He asks as Fenris turns into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and grabbing for an open bottle resting on the floor. Anders pulls over a familiar dusty chair and sits down.

 

"Probably." Fenris shuffles back to lean his weight against the wall, muscles shifting enticingly under tanned skin. When he tilts his head back to empty the last few drops of wine, Anders can't help but watch the muscles in his neck work as he swallows. He shakes his head and forces himself to focus. In his mind he chastises himself. _This is ridiculous, Anders. You're a grown man._

 

"Fenris, it's not even noon. How are you already dr--"

 

"You're staring," the elf says, not letting him finish the question. He looks at Anders levelly, expression unreadable. To his credit, the mage flushes slightly and appears rattled, but doesn't break eye contact.

 

"I'msorry," he says, the words coming out on top of each other. "I didn't mean to--"

 

"It's fine. I am... atypical. Your staring is justified." Fenris curls very slightly in on himself, the motion likely subconscious. Anders fumbles for a response that won't get him killed. He can feel himself blushing, any attempt to will the colour away having failed miserably.

 

"I've just... never seen you without your armor, that's all. Not without you being half-dead and covered in blood, I mean." He picks up an unopened bottle of wine and struggles feebly with the cork for a few moments before Fenris reaches to gently extricate it from his grip. When the elf's fingers brush his own, he finds himself surprised by their warmth. In a well-practiced movement, Fenris grips the top of the cork and pulls, twisting his wrist as he does so. When he hands the bottle back, Anders sees the corner of his lip twitch in what he hopes might actually be a smile.

 

"Do people usually stare?" He asks, regretting the question even as it comes out of his mouth. Fenris quirks an eyebrow.

 

"I don't often leave the mansion without a shirt," he says drily, motioning for the wine; Anders hands it to him despite his better judgment. "People _did_ stare, yes. It's been some time since I was last paraded in front of guests, however." He pauses, apparently considering something, then hands the bottle back to the mage. Anders takes a drink and winces at the flavour, eliciting an amused huff from Fenris before he continues. When he talks, it's to his own hands. His face is neutral, expression well-controlled. "I was... It was Danarius's intention that I be _'striking'_. I was meant to intimidate. It worked for the most part." 

 

"I didn't mean to bring up the past... I'm sorry." Anders sets the wine down again on the floor and finds himself grateful when Fenris doesn't bother reaching for it again. He's known the man for years, has spent countless hours travelling in close proximity, and yet he can only recall a handful of times when they've spoken without bickering. All at once he feels ashamed of his own inability to swallow his pride.

 

"I brought it up, not you. I... do not remember much of my past. I'll keep what I can remember, however unpleasant." He smiles, only slightly. To Anders the expression is sad, almost painful to see. "Hawke once told me that he couldn't understand why people would be put off by my appearance. I didn't believe he meant it at the time."

 

"And now?"

 

"I don't know what I believe anymore." The room is quiet for some time as Anders considers his response. He has to say something - _wants_ to say something, he realizes, to keep Fenris talking.

 

"He cares about you," he ventures, voice quieter than he'd intended. Fenris looks up at him briefly as if to check for sincerity. He looks away again just as abruptly.

 

"I... do not doubt that he cares. He was very... open. With his intent." The linens that cover Fenris's bed are worn nearly threadbare, but surprisingly clean. When the elf pulls a blanket around his shoulders in a sort of makeshift cape, Anders wonders silently why he would choose to clean just that one thing and keep the rest of the mansion in such a state of disarray. He forces his thoughts back to the current situation, cursing his tired mind for wandering.

 

"Isn't that a good thing, openness? Honesty?"

 

"If I knew how to deal with it, perhaps. You have to understand that it is not something with which I'm particularly familiar." Fenris is quiet for some time, staring into space and rubbing a corner of the blanket absently between his thumb and forefinger. As he does so, his expression grows dark. Eventually he looks up again, eyes narrowed. "What is it that you hope to accomplish with this?" 

 

Anders frowns, confused. "Accomplish with what?"

 

" _This,_ " Fenris says sharply, motioning indiscriminately to the space between them. "Feigning interest. Pretending to care."

 

Anders stammers, caught off guard. "What? I... no, Fenris, I wouldn't--" The elf stands suddenly, stepping into Anders's space even as the mage stumbles over his own feet in an attempt to get up. He can smell the alcohol on Fenris's breath.

 

"Did Hawke ask you to check up on me? To make sure I'm here alone and not _whoring_ myself out to someone else to feel useful?"

 

"Maker Fenris, no! I just came to see if you would--"

 

"You nearly had me convinced, _Anders._ As if a _mage_ would care for my discomfort." He spits the words as if they're venom, eyes virulent under dark brows as he looks up at the other man.

 

Anders doesn't bother to argue - cannot really even bring himself to be angry, and so he simply makes for the stairs instead, expression sullen. Before he leaves, he turns and looks back at Fenris, not bothering to veil his obvious hurt. "I just thought that maybe... I guess I thought you could use a friend, that's all."

 

On his way home, he doesn't bother to slow down or blend in.


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His memory is diseased, masochistic, frequently bringing forth images that only serve to fuel the hatred that consumes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter this week because apparently Fenris is much easier for me to write than Anders. What this means about my mental health, I do not know.
> 
> Seriously, guys - the comments, the kudos, the page views... Thank you SO much for taking the time to read this!

"You are so very skilled, my pet," the magister purrs, settling back into the plush pile of cushions against the headboard. He sighs, sounding sated, drowsy, and Fenris feels his chest swell with pride at having pleased his Master well. He remains still, kneeling at the foot of the bed and silently hoping for the words he so loves to hear. Hope is a dangerous thing, he knows - it can lead only to disappointment for someone as lowly and insignificant as himself - but it's one of the few possessions he has left to cherish. Even for all his discipline, he cannot help but do so.

 

"Come, Fenris," Danarius says and motions for his slave to lie at his side. It's what Fenris had wanted to hear - what he had dared _hope_ to hear - and he doesn't need to be told twice. The bed linens are silk, impossibly soft against his bare skin, and for a split second he can't help but feel guilty for besoiling something so valuable with his very touch. Then his Master pulls him close, holds him flush against his side and gently brushes a few loose strands of silver hair from his forehead, and the errant thought is quickly forgotten. All Fenris can think of now is _love_.

 

The rare smile that graces Fenris's lips upon waking is short-lived, twisting immediately into the harsh scowl that he wears for, lamentably, the majority of his waking hours. The last images of the dream fade out of consciousness but the disgust he feels for himself lingers, knowing every last detail all too well to completely forget. His memory is diseased, masochistic, frequently bringing forth images that only serve to fuel the hatred that consumes him. As he glances up through the holes in the ceiling, taking in the pale pink cast of the sky that can only mean pre-dawn, the image that haunts him is new, recent, but no less painful.

 

He sees Anders caught with his many defenses down - insulted, _hurt_ \- and berates himself internally for actually feeling remorse. Fenris's problems are his own; he doesn't need anyone meddling in his personal affairs, let alone the _Abomination_.

 

Doing what he can to ignore the arduous throbbing of his head, he pushes himself upright and slides out from between the blankets to his feet. His stomach churns, unsettled, but he pays it no attention, instead heading downstairs to the privy to empty his bladder. Yawning, he then moves into the adjacent room that houses a tub.

 

The bath is one of the few luxuries of the estate in which Fenris takes any pleasure, equipped with a functional well-pump and a small recessed fire pit meant for heating the water before bathing. Even this early, the day is warm, humid, and he can't be bothered to start a fire. Stripping off his leggings, he steps into the large stone basin and begins pumping water. As he does so, he struggles with feelings of guilt.

 

The image that plagues him is that of the mage's face before he had made his retreat down the stairs, wounded amber eyes betraying the stubborn set of his jaw. Anders is many things, a great number of which Fenris does not approve, but he most certainly isn't a liar. Fenris has _seen_ him try to lie, the attempt nothing short of pitiful even in a context so inconsequential as a game of Wicked Grace. Even so, he doesn't doubt that the mage has many things to hide and does so without regret - but is that not the case with everyone? Anders's problem, Fenris thinks, is that he can't keep his emotions from being written all over his face. Why, then, did he suddenly lash out and accuse him of being dishonest? He has to admit now that the idea hardly even seems plausible.

 

Sinking into the shallow water, Fenris closes his eyes and allows his body a moment to adjust to the lower temperature. He exhales dejectedly, resting his head against the smooth stone of the wall, and tries in vain to convince himself that he doesn't care. After several minutes he sighs, picks up a soft-bristled brush, and begins the familiar process of scrubbing his skin raw. It doesn't cleanse him of his shame, of his disgust with the things he's done in his life, but it hurts - and at least that's _something._

 

By the time he's dressed and out the door, a few of the more dedicated merchants have begun to set up their stalls in the market. He walks quickly, having decided against spending another day alone with his thoughts, and as he does he assures himself that he has the emotional capacity to handle the situation. All he has to do is pay the mage a quick, painless visit. He'll apologize, inquire about the wards that are hopefully still safeguarding his sword, and if that goes smoothly, he might even ask if Hawke is willing to see him. There has to be _something_ in the city of Kirkwall that needs doing, and if there is then Hawke will no doubt be involved.

 

As he descends the stairs into the market proper, a set of neatly stacked glass jars in a nearby stall catches his eye. The words on the labels are meaningless to him, black strokes scribed on parchment and nothing more, but a few of them look vaguely familiar. Upon closer inspection, the jars appear to contain a variety of dried plants. He recognizes one of them as spindleweed, the variegated leaves easily distinguishable, and another looks very much like elfroot, but that's where his limited realm of expertise ends.

 

"You're up bright and early, aren't you Messere?" the elf behind the table asks, and Fenris doesn't think there will ever come a time when he'll get used to being addressed as such. "Those ingredients just came in from Ferelden yesterday. Heal any ailment you can think of, they will. Better varieties than you can find here in the Free Marches, too; the soil's much richer there."

 

"Fewer dead slaves to taint the ground," Fenris mutters under his breath, interrupting the merchant's sales pitch and leaving him standing there awkwardly, no doubt unsure of how to respond. "How many poultices could be made with these?"

 

"More than any normal person should ever need," the man answers, looking at Fenris strangely when he snorts in response.

 

"Fitting, then," he says, reaching to unclasp a pouch on his belt. "I have some very abnormal friends."

 

Fenris doesn't bother bartering, just hands the merchant the amount he requests for the set and throws in an extra silver to have the jars packed securely in a crate for him to carry. He reasons that he can't think of a better use for the coin he's collected killing various bands of petty thugs. Aside from food, there's really nothing Fenris needs to buy for himself on a regular basis. Plus, the mage had brought him something to aid his sleep; it's only fitting that he return the favour. Why he feels the need to justify his purchase, he doesn't know. Pushing the thoughts from his head - now much clearer thanks to the fresh air and the breeze - he continues on his way to Darktown.

 

The clinic doors are shut and barred when Fenris arrives, this particular corner of Darktown curiously deserted at this early hour. When he sets down the crate to knock on the heavily weathered wood, the sound carries, echoing in the open space behind him. It takes him several attempts pounding at the door before he hears the mage stir inside, a tired stream of dialogue growing in volume the closer he gets to the front of the clinic.

 

"Andraste's flaming tits, who _is_ it? You'd better be bleeding from the bloody head to have me up at this hour. Do you have _any_ idea what--" Anders slides the door partially open and glares out at Fenris, eyes slightly wild from sleep and hair disheveled. The first expression on his face upon recognition is surprise, followed briefly by worry before returning again to anger. "What do _you_ want?" he asks, the words biting, and to his surprise Fenris's expression actually falters for a moment.

 

"I just--"

 

"No, you know what? I don't even care." The door slides abruptly shut in Fenris's face, the resulting slam reverberating around him as he stands there, frowning. Taking in a deep breath, he raises his fist again.

 

"Open the door, mage," he says between knocks. "I did not walk all the way down here for the view." Behind him, an impossibly large rat emerges from a pile of straw and waddles in the other direction. "I'm disturbing the locals," Fenris tries when he still gets no answer. "They won't be very happy with you." At that, he hears Anders huffing to himself on the other side of the wood that separates them.

 

"The locals are never happy, Fenris. It's Darktown."

 

"Open the door," the elf says again, feeling foolish. When Anders doesn't respond, he swallows his pride and sighs. "Anders, please. I really don't want to have this conversation through a piece of wood."

 

"What conversation would that be?" Anders asks, and Fenris rolls his eyes even though there's no one to witness him doing so.

 

"I came to apologize," he sighs, "so if you could please just open the--" Anders slides the lock and unlatches the door but makes no effort to pull it open. Fenris does it himself, stepping into the clinic to find the mage sitting slumped on the edge of a low table in an oversized nightshirt, looking exhausted. His hair is still out of place, though slightly less messy and now tucked behind his ears. "Thank you," he says, turning around to pick up the crate of crafting materials he'd bought. When he sets it down at Anders's feet, the mage looks up at him expectantly.

 

"What is this?" he asks, tone hesitant. Fenris huffs and holds his eyes shut for a moment in an attempt not to lose his patience.

 

"Why are you asking me? Look inside." Anders frowns at him disapprovingly.

 

"You're really bad at this," he says, but reaches into the crate just the same. Fenris watches as long fingers deftly unfold the cloth from around the first of the jars. Anders looks questioningly up at the elf, a smile playing at his lips. "You brought me a gift," he says, a statement and not a question. When he removes the lid and sniffs the jar's contents, his face becomes suddenly serious and he looks up at the other man, concerned. "This is... Fenris, this is Gossamer elfroot. It only grows in the hills around Amaranthine. How much did this cost you?" Fenris shrugs, unconcerned, and motions for him to continue with the crate's contents. Anders unwraps one jar after another, pausing periodically to look up at Fenris with what appears to be disbelief. When he rewraps the last of the ingredients and places it carefully back in the crate, he sits there for a moment shaking his head.

 

"I... really don't know what to say," he admits. "Will you let me pay you for them?"

 

Fenris looks at him and raises an eyebrow. "One generally does not pay for gifts."

 

Anders laughs awkwardly and gets to his feet. "Well no, but these are Fereldan herbs - they're nearly twice as potent as the ones around here and they must have cost you a fortu--"

 

"Mage," Fenris says, his tone making the word into a warning that doesn't match the smirk threatening to take over his lips.

 

Anders grins, a rare expression that softens the hard angles of his face and brightens his eyes, and for some reason Fenris is struck with the thought that he wishes he'd do it more often. The mage looks at him quizzically for a split second in silent consideration before apparently deciding on something and stepping forward to close the distance between them. Before Fenris has a chance to object, Anders is wrapping his arms around him and pulling him tightly into a hug.

 

Instinctively the elf goes still, muscles stiffening in response to the unexpected physical contact, and he has to will himself not to phase out, to keep breathing. Anders is warm and surprisingly solid, not at all frail like the only other person Fenris can remember ever having embraced him. This close, he can smell the other man's hair - elfroot and something else that he can't identify at the moment, the scent clean and earthy.

 

"Thank you so much," Anders says, and Fenris suppresses a shiver at the feeling of the other man's breath ghosting the skin of his neck. The contact only lasts for a moment but when the mage pulls away, Fenris can feel the blood rush to his face and ears, flushing the skin. He clears his throat and crosses one arm in front of himself to grasp the other at the wrist, the subconscious action both a defense and an attempt at comfort.

 

"You're welcome," he says, then forces himself to meet Anders's eyes. "I...appreciate the things you have done for me. I am sorry for my behavior yesterday."

 

Anders, still smiling - _blushing?_ \- turns away abruptly and heads for the back of the clinic. "Let me get dressed. We're going to see Hawke."


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke opens the door almost immediately, a familiar grin on his face, and Fenris can't decide whether he wants to return the smile or turn and leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The abundance of kudos and comments as of late have made an incredibly stressful week much, much easier to endure. I hope you're still enjoying this as much as I am.

Anders pulls the curtain closed behind him, shutting out the rest of the clinic and leaving Fenris alone on the other side. Crooked smile still adorning his lips, he closes his eyes for a moment to process his thoughts. The previous evening, he'd gone to bed with the intention of telling Hawke they would have to investigate the mansion on another day - that he had patients to treat and a lot more work to do than he'd realized. Sleep had taken too long to come and he'd rolled around in his poor excuse for a bed, staring into the darkness and cursing his own foolish optimism for having him believe that someone as cold as _Fenris_ could actually appreciate a friendly gesture. It seems now that he'd been wrong. Again.

 

In truth, Anders had to admit to himself that when he initially woke to the pounding on his door, he had _hoped_ to find the grumpy bastard on the other side. It was much earlier than he'd expected, sure, but his eternal optimism - ever present despite his growing disdain for life in general - had led him to believe that Fenris would come around eventually. The man fought regularly with all of Hawke's companions, exchanging hurtful words and judgment like currency, but every time they gathered as a group he would be there, dismal and offputting as always. No one questioned it; it was simply accepted. Hawke's band of outcasts, as varied and internally conflicted as they were, had found unity in the simple unspoken acceptance of each other's faults. They didn't always get along, precisely, but they were close all the same.

 

Pulling his nightshirt off over the top of his head, Anders wars with the disquiet in the back of his mind that tells him not to forgive and forget so quickly. _Justice,_ he thinks, and shakes his head in a futile attempt to clear it. _He brought supplies to help the patients,_ he tries to remind himself. _Why can't you focus on that?"_ Fenris's gift had been... incredibly thoughtful, actually. _Disarmingly_ thoughtful. Fenris does have the capacity to care, something Anders has come to accept only as of late, blinded previously by the elf's outspoken hatred of magic. Anders can see it now for what it really is - a hatred of _magic,_ not of mages themselves. And is that really so different from the opinion of the majority of people in Thedas? Ignorant, yes, but in all fairness he's starting to understand how Fenris can feel as he does. The staggering amount of misguided fools turning to blood magic and consorting with demons is doing nothing to further the mage cause, and while the present situation may well have forced the idiots to their desperate measures, even someone as passionate as Anders is having a hard time defending them.

 

On the other side of the curtain, Fenris clears his throat. Anders finds himself smiling again as he calls back "Hold on," throws on the cleanest clothing he can find, and fastens his coat. Taking one last moment to check his reflection in a small looking glass he'd received from a grateful patient, he snatches his hair tie from where it lies discarded on the small shelf next to his bed. When he pulls back the curtain, he's surprised to find Fenris leaning over the most recent copy of his manifesto, looking troubled.

 

"How many times have I tried to get you to read that?" Anders asks, pulling his hair back from his face to secure it haphazardly with his favoured piece of leather.

 

Fenris bristles visibly at being caught but answers smoothly all the same, face deadpan. "Too many."

 

He watches with what Anders can only assume is curiosity as he finishes tying his hair, his expression lacking its usual harshness. Feeling mildly self-conscious for no good reason, the mage asks "What?"

 

"Do you always spend this much time fussing with yourself?" Fenris asks, looking bemused.

 

Anders smirks, the response leaving his mouth before he has any chance to consider the effect it might have on his physical well-being; "I hardly think that how often I _fuss_ with myself is of any concern to you."

 

The other man turns and walks toward the front of the clinic, uttering a meaningless " _pfaugh,_ " and Anders finds himself absurdly satisfied by the flushing of Fenris's ears.

 

***

 

The walk to Hightown is less awkward than Anders had anticipated, aided in part by his own nervous habit of rambling incessantly while uncomfortable. He has nothing to worry about and _knows_ as much, and yet he can't help but feel some anxiety at the possibility that he'll be forced to play mediator (or worse) between two of his friends. Surprisingly, Fenris doesn't object to his meandering stream of dialogue. Instead he walks quietly alongside Anders, occasionally huffing in response to the more senseless of his vocalized thoughts and even chuckling once under his breath when asked if _all_ elven women are sensitive about their ears. It isn't until the two of them are approaching the Amell estate that Anders considers how Fenris is probably feeling.

 

"Are you nervous?" He asks abruptly, turning when he gets no answer to find Fenris looking studiously at him, likely trying to determine the intent of his question.

 

"No more than yourself," he says with a smirk, but looks at Anders openly, eyes conveying a subtle humility that leaves the mage with the urge to hug him again. Instead he laughs awkwardly, trying not to let his gaze linger on lush green eyes. He fails. "Did you not meet with him yesterday?" Fenris asks, and Anders realizes all at once that it's not the possibility of having to mediate that he fears.

 

"Well yes, but--" Hawke had known.

 

"Did he leave you with some reason to feel apprehensive?"

 

"Not exactly." _Do you have a thing for Fenris?_

 

"Not... exactly?" Fenris narrows his eyes and Anders tries not to shrink under his scrutiny, suddenly worried that his thoughts are written all over his face.

 

"I don't know, he just... Hawke can be intimidating. He seemed friendly enough yesterday but sometimes I feel like he's looking _through_ me instead of at me. Don't try to tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. It's unnerving."

 

Fenris raises an eyebrow and looks at him suspiciously, but at least the questions stop. "A quality that should really only concern a person with something to hide."

 

Anders actually laughs, a pleasant melodic sound that bounces off the stone walls of the Hightown square. "Who, me? The apostate mage and escaped Grey Warden sharing his body with a spirit of Justice? Something to _hide?_ Perish the thought."

 

Fenris smiles and quickly turns away, moving to knock on the door. "Your self awareness does you credit."

 

When Anders has to fight the urge to turn the other man back around again just to see the smile on his face, he finally admits to himself that he might be in trouble. Maybe - just _maybe_ \- he has a bit of a thing for Fenris.

 

***

 

Hawke opens the door almost immediately, a familiar grin on his face, and Fenris can't decide whether he wants to return the smile or turn and leave. The thought is absurd and he knows it; Hawke is the only person he's really trusted with anything since claiming his life as his own, and one impetuous evening - however intimate it may have been - shouldn't change that. He hopes.

 

"Fenris," Hawke says by way of a greeting and nods his head, still smiling. "Anders. Bodahn made breakfast, if you're hungry. You may want to hurry though, Varric beat you here and when I left him he was on his second plate."

 

"I heard that!" The dwarf calls from the dining room, "You'd think that someone with as much coin as you could afford to buy a decent-sized plate, Hawke."

 

Anders mumbles something about being starved, pushes past Fenris and Hawke and heads for the food, leaving the two of them standing alone in the doorway. Fenris glares at his back and makes a mental note to thank him for leaving him in this situation later.

 

"I'm glad you came," Hawke says, not letting the silence last long enough to add to their mutual awkwardness. For a moment he looks as though he's about to reach for Fenris's hand, apparently thinking better of it at the last second and fidgeting with his belt instead. "I'm sorry for the other day. I have no excuse for reacting the way I did, aside from the rather obvious fact that I'm an idiot." He chuckles nervously to himself before turning dark blue eyes on Fenris and offering an apologetic look.

 

"Occasionally," Fenris agrees, a small smile creeping over his lips. "Though to be fair, I could have acquired some social grace instead of avoiding you for as long as I did."

 

"True," Hawke says, looking slightly relieved. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry I inadvertently let Anders in on the whole... ordeal. I know he's not your favourite person most days."

 

"Actually," Fenris says, the words leaving his mouth before he has a chance to really consider them, "He already knew."

 

Something flashes quickly across Hawke's face, coming and going so swiftly that Fenris doesn't have time to identify the emotion before his expression becomes neutral again. "Ah," he says simply. "You know, it's nice to see the two of you spending some time together. I always thought you had a lot in common. It's good that you're finally setting aside your differences."

 

Fenris isn't sure how he's supposed to respond to that, exactly - has in truth been avoiding putting much thought into his newfound rapport with the mage - but Hawke is suddenly looking at him with an intrusive interest he finds he has no desire to indulge. When Varric calls from the other room, he's appreciative for the thousandth time of the dwarf's impeccable timing.

 

"Broody, you might want to get in here. Your breakfast is getting all cold and eaten."


	16. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If we scream bloody murder it means we've found something," Varric calls, laughing smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter! Workworkwork blahblahblah.
> 
> You are all so very awesome! Thank you for reading!

"So you just left the bodies there?" Hawke asks, sounding a little too critical. "In an enclosed space with no airflow in the middle of summer?" He walks ahead of the group, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the sun not having reached the height of its arc in the sky. Smiling, he realizes that he's glad to be back doing... _whatever_ it is that they do exactly, his friends in close proximity. He tries to focus on that gladness, to appreciate the fact that both Anders and Fenris seem perfectly willing to forget about his childish tirade. Instead, his mind returns every few minutes to the exact problem that fueled it in the first place - his own irrational jealousy.

 

"And what would you have had us do with them, Hawke?" Fenris asks with a scoff, casting a sidelong glance at both Varric and Anders. Hawke can't help but revel at the sound of his name being spoken again in that salacious _voice_ of his. It's the same enticing, throaty tone that's filled his thoughts both waking and asleep for longer than he'd like to admit - even more tormenting after hearing it moaned into the shell of his ear. He shivers at the memory and tries to will the thought away before returning mentally to the present.

 

"I don't know, couldn't you have burned them?"

 

Anders laughs curtly. "Yes, because that would have smelled _much_ better."

 

"We'd have burned the whole estate to the ground," Varric adds unhelpfully. "I don't know of any place inside the city big enough to safely burn that many bodies."

 

"We could always ask the Templars," Anders suggests darkly. "I imagine they have to dispose of their fair share."

 

"Here we go again," Fenris says, rolling his eyes.

 

The words lack any real malice, but Hawke realizes with more than a little guilt that they bring him relief all the same. And what kind of sick bastard is actually _glad_ that two of his closest friends disagree on something so resolutely? He used to be bothered by their frequent tiffs - could never understand how two people with so many similarities could carry on as they did with nothing but disdain for one another - but now...

 

It had been one thing when he'd discovered Anders's unlikely crush on Fenris - a surprise, yes, but mostly understandable. Despite his outward severity, Fenris could be endearing, likeable, even _gentle_ at times. Who would Hawke be to judge the other man for being smitten with him? He felt the same, after all. For Anders, he worried that it would be just one more torment in an already troubled life. It wasn't until he'd spoken with Fenris directly that he realized there might be something he hadn't seen between the two of them. For that something to develop into anything beyond a friendship was unlikely, but stranger things have happened.

 

Hawke is pulled from his thoughts when Anders reaches out to slap Fenris's arm playfully, trying to look offended but failing miserably thanks to the smile on his lips. When Fenris nimbly dodges the blow and then grins at Anders - actually _grins_ \- Hawke simply faces forward and keeps walking, trying to cheer himself with the fact that at least his _friends_ are happy.

 

***

 

"You're sure this is the place?" Hawke asks, his words echoing vacantly in the starkness of the abandoned mansion's main hall.

 

Anders bends to run his hand along one of the floor tiles, apparently not trusting his eyes. He frowns when his fingers come back perfectly clean, looking confused. "I'm certain. They attacked us right here."

 

"Maybe the house got sold?" Varric suggests, sounding skeptical. "Someone had it cleaned up?"

 

Fenris takes a few tentative steps forward, looking to each side of the large space as he does so. The hall is completely bare, devoid of even a trace of the carnage they'd left behind. "Or someone hid the evidence."

 

"How would one go about that, exactly?" Anders asks no one in particular. "And without anybody noticing?"

 

"I suppose the same way they managed to get all of those people in here and crazied-up in the first place," Varric shrugs and shakes his head.

 

"The kitchen's through here, I'll wager?" Hawke points to a door leading out of the room, and in typical fashion starts walking without waiting for an answer. Fenris sighs, finding himself suddenly tired of the other man's impulsiveness, but moves to follow anyway, a force of habit more than anything else.

 

In the kitchen, there is absolutely nothing. The vials are gone, the blood gone, the cupboards empty. Fenris opens the pantry door and breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he finds that his sword is exactly where they'd left it.

 

"I told you it would be safe," Anders says, suddenly _right_ behind him, and Fenris's brands flare instantly before his tired reflexes even have a chance to respond. For a small fraction of a second it's as if every nerve in his body comes awake, goosebumps forming on his skin and hair standing on end. Blood rushes rapidly to his head, filling his ears with the emphatic thrum of his pulse and flushing his cheeks a deep pink. When he realizes what's happening - some strange reaction of the active lyrium to the mage's proximity, he suspects - he forces himself to breathe evenly for long enough to deactivate the markings.

 

Anders visibly shivers, resting his weight on the door frame and closing his eyes for a few moments before laughing breathlessly. When he speaks, his voice falters; "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

 

"It's fine," Fenris says, voice a low grumble, and moves to grab his weapon from where it sits propped neatly in the corner. His words are shaky, mirroring the unsteadiness of his steps, and he decides to busy himself with an examination of the massive blade rather than engaging in conversation. When Anders just stands there, apparently not taking the hint, Fenris forces his eyes away from the steel to look at him instead.

 

"You're not usually the jumpy type," the mage says, leaning against the wooden frame. In the dimness of the pantry, Anders's face is cast in shadow, his eyes dark. Behind him, sun filters through the kitchen's large glass panes to outline him in a mellow gold. For a moment Fenris finds his eyes fixed on the mage's illuminated form, darkness and light coalescing at an unlikely juncture and drawing his gaze. He thinks abstractedly of the strong angles of Anders's face, the deep ochre of his eyes, and the quiet kindness he's tried to ignore behind them.

 

"We're going to check out the rest of the place!" Hawke shouts from the adjacent room, startling Anders and freeing Fenris from thoughts he absolutely _cannot_ be thinking.

 

"If we scream bloody murder it means we've found something," Varric calls, laughing smoothly. Fenris returns his attention to his weapon, immensely grateful for the distraction.

 

"Fenris?" Anders asks tentatively after a short silence, voice hushed.

 

Fenris doesn't look up from his sword - does not want to look at the mage or answer the question that he fears is coming. "Yes?"

 

"Are you all right?" Anders asks, apparently opting once again to ignore whatever it is that's just happened between them.

 

Not bothering to mask the confusion on his face, Fenris looks at the mage uncertainly and shakes his head. "Am I... all right?" He fixes his eyes on Anders's, sympathetic amber taking on a deeper shade in the relative darkness of the pantry. Fenris steps closer and lowers his voice, worried that the sound of his words will carry in the empty estate. As he speaks the words grow sharper, beginning to convey his frustration. "Why do you suddenly care how I feel? It's not as though I've been kind to you. Until a few days ago you were convinced that I _despised_ you. You called me a hypocrite, berated me for treating you as I do, told me you had no desire whatsoever to help me with even a simple problem - and now what? Have you forgotten that?"

 

Anders looks back at him without speaking, clearly uncomfortable but not afraid, and that alone is enough to make Fenris uneasy. He is accustomed to people responding with fear to his closeness - was in fact created for the very purpose of eliciting such a feeling... among other things. He seethes at that thought, another cruel memory resurfacing to remind him that he'll never be absolved of the filth, of the shame, of the bitterness he holds for being too foolish not to know any better.

 

"I--"

 

"I do not need your pity, _Anders,_ " he says severely, stepping further into the mage's space until the two of them are nearly touching. This close, he can feel the subtle resonance of mana, something he knows he shouldn't have the ability to perceive. _Another gift from Danarius,_ he thinks, once again disgusted with himself for something beyond his control. He resists the urge to move closer, the sensation pleasurable, alluring despite his best attempts to deny it.

 

"I don't need your hostility," Anders threatens, voice so low that Fenris has to strain to make out his words. "Nor do I deserve it." He steps forward and closes the space between them, pressing his body flush against Fenris's armor and looking him directly in the eye. It's a show of aggression that Fenris wouldn't have expected from the other man, and he feels his breath catch in his throat at the unexpected invasion of his personal space. "You don't need anyone but yourself; I get that. I _respect_ that. But it doesn't mean that you should push everybody away just for wanting to get to know you better. Despite what you might believe, you're a perfectly respectable man. Pigheaded, unnecessarily harsh, and bloody frustrating at times, but good. _Admirable._ " He stops talking and just looks at Fenris earnestly, shifting his gaze from one eye to the other as if trying to gauge his reaction. Instead of anger, Anders's eyes hold resolve. "I don't care because I pity you, Fenris. I care because I'm your friend, whether you want to admit that or not."

 

When Anders turns and walks away, Fenris feels the humid summer air grow cold around him.


	17. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently deciding not to dignify the mage's comment with a response, Fenris turns his perpetual scowl once again on Hawke. "We're really just going to walk into a trap this obvious?"
> 
> "We could dance in, if you'd prefer. I know how you are about your choreography. It might even throw our enemies off a little." Hawke swings his hips gracelessly from side to side and snaps his fingers as he walks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! My brain stopped working on me for a short period of time. =/
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all once again for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and being awesome!

Anders moves swiftly but without any real direction through the hallways of the mansion's upper floor, trying each door he passes and finding them all locked. He needs to breathe, to slow the racing of his heart, to clear away the pervasive feeling of Fenris in close proximity. He needs to be alone to contemplate the uneasy tension growing in the pit of his stomach, the heady rush of blood to his head that left him dizzy when he pressed his body against the other man. He also needs to quell the illogical urge to just _laugh_ at the absurdity of it all. 

 

Anders tries to reason that his charged physiological response is due to the fact that he's spent so many years alone, having nearly forgotten the sensation of someone else's body heat melding with his own - so why does he feel so guilty about it? It's not even _about_ Fenris, not really. It wouldn't make sense for it to be about the man who clearly only tolerates Anders's company at best.

 

Finally he finds a door that's unlocked. With a sigh of relief he opens it and slips inside, hoping to find solace and ignoring the unrelenting voice in his mind that tries to tell him he really should be paying more attention to the inherent danger of his surroundings.

 

"Not now, Justice," he mumbles to himself, the low sound reverberating in the empty room. The air is thick, stagnant and hot, and it clings to his already heated skin like a piece of wet linen. Sunlight filters in through two small windows on the far wall and illuminates the dust that dances lazily through the air, providing a distraction, a momentary respite from the troubled thoughts in Anders's head. When nothing sinister springs from the corners of the room in an attempt to dismember him, he lets himself slide down the back of the door to rest on plush carpet.

 

Sighing, he drops his head to his chest and tries to identify what exactly it is that he's feeling. He'd thought himself beyond being bothered by Fenris's unsolicited bitterness by now - has endured years of incessant verbal abuse from the man, some of which he's loath to admit may have been warranted - so why should he suddenly be offended now? The elf is brutal, arrogant, and stubborn nearly to the point of blindness. He's frustrating and he's selfish and cruel without reason, and there's no legitimate reason why Anders should suddenly care how the other man feels about him.

 

_You expect too much of him,_ Justice thinks suddenly and so Anders thinks too, whether or not he wants to do so. _He was a slave._

 

"And?" Anders murmurs impatiently into the vacant space, not particularly grateful for the spirit's interruption and already in a foul mood thanks to both Fenris and the oppressive heat. "This is relevant how?"

 

_He has suffered a great deal,_ Justice thinks in response and Anders sighs, frustrated by his lack of clarity. _His life has not been easy or fair._

 

"No one's life is fair! It doesn't give him the right to treat everyone so horribly." Anders says, his voice incredulous, feeling absurd arguing aloud with the presence that resides in his own head. "Why should you care about him, anyway? He's a danger to the very people we're fighting to free."

 

_He has not turned us in to the templars,_ Justice states simply.

 

"Not yet," Anders retorts, scoffing.

 

_Nor Hawke or the Dalish mage,_ the spirit continues, and despite his desire to push the thoughts away, Anders does have to wonder at that. Perhaps encouraged by the momentary lapse in the mage's annoyance, Justice goes on. _He has had ample opportunity._

 

"...True," Anders murmurs, actually considering it for the first time. Fenris has known Hawke for more than three years now - has accompanied him on countless jobs, many of which he's clearly expressed his discomfort in being a part of - and Hawke is still free. Merrill, a blood mage, is still free. _Anders_ is still free, Justice and all. Thinking back, he'd met Fenris for the first time on the night that they'd gone to find Karl...

 

_He fought the templars with us,_ Justice affirms.

 

"He told Hawke clearly that he thought it was a horrible idea," Anders says quietly in the dust-filled room, confusion written plainly on his face. "He came anyway. He saw what I am, what I'm capable of doing--"

 

_And he is still here,_ the spirit finishes, his thought becoming Anders's own.

 

Rising inelegantly to his feet, he dusts off his robes and leaves the sanctity of his hastily-procured privacy to find the others.

 

***

 

Fenris paces, the relentless flow of his unsettled thoughts driving his steps back and forth, back and forth to tread the length of the kitchen. He finds the weight of the weapon upon his back a simple comfort and wonders what kind of man that makes him - if he's even fit to be called a man at all. More and more he thinks himself an animal, a savage beast incapable of higher thought or reason, some feral _thing_ that knows no better than to lash out violently at anything unfamiliar. He shakes his head with each unwelcome thought that pushes its way forward, trying to will them away but ultimately failing. Always failing.

 

Fenris wonders if this senseless war with his own thoughts will ever cease. He questions whether his inability to choose his own mental focus is a product of his conditioning as a slave, or just another of the numerous flaws in his character. The fact that he questions these things at all is a reflection of his ignorance concerning even the most basic of emotional experiences. For all he knows, the unrelenting thoughts could be a problem unique only to him - just one more thing to add to the list of atrocities for which he hopes to one day thank Danarius. It's not as if he's ever spoken at any length about his thoughts with anyone. He has no doubt that Hawke would listen without judgment; in fact Varric would too, or even Isabela. Or _Anders_.

 

He utters a meaningless _pfaugh_ under his breath, irritated that his thoughts have circled around once more to pause disconcertingly on the mage. Surely he has other, less preposterous things with which to concern himself than the sudden awareness of Anders as a _man_ \- as a person and not just another self-serving, sadistic fool bestowed with far too much power to handle responsibly. He hasn't time to dwell on the unwelcome mental images of golden hair, of smooth alabaster skin, and of eyes the colour of dark summer honey. It doesn't matter that those same eyes, when surveying his own, seem to see through the bitterness and the carefully constructed defenses that others hadn't even thought to diffuse. Anders is a mage, an abomination; to think of him as _friend_ is not something that Fenris had ever even considered. 

 

Trying and failing _(always failing)_ to think of a more accurate term to define the mage's role in his everyday life, Fenris stops pacing mid-stride. Turning to face the doorway through which Hawke and Varric had left, he resumes his steps. Allowing himself one final thought on the subject, he hisses _venhedis_ aloud, leaving the curse to ricochet off the walls of the empty kitchen.

 

***

 

"It was really very considerate of them to leave us a map," Hawke says in good humour, clutching the roll of parchment tightly in his hand.

 

"I think _deliberate_ is probably the word that I would use. Leaving the whole place completely empty except for one clue? It lacks a certain subtlety, doesn't it?" Varric answers.

 

"Do you truly think this is wise?" Fenris asks out of nowhere, and Hawke is forced to conceal his surprise at the fact that the elf is once again speaking to him. By choice. On purpose.

 

"I don't know if I'd call it _wise_ exactly," he ventures and then waits for a response. When Fenris simply stares at him sardonically and says nothing, he can't help but smirk. "What? Do you have a better idea?"

 

"I suppose we could all just stab each _other_ in the back and save ourselves the trip," he retorts, and Hawke laughs even though he knows Fenris isn't really kidding. He chances a sideways glance at the other man and finds - much to his astonishment and unwitting glee - that he's looking right back at him instead of at his own feet like he has been for the past month.

 

"Oh come on Broody," Varric pipes up from Hawke's other side. "They say the Coast is lovely this time of year."

 

"Who are _they_?" Fenris asks incredulously. "The Coast is unbearably hot and littered with corpses. _All_ year."

 

From behind them, Anders scoffs. "Right, because _you_ have an aversion to dead bodies. It's not like you've been keeping a pile of them as housemates for three years or anything."

 

Apparently deciding not to dignify the mage's comment with a response, Fenris turns his perpetual scowl once again on Hawke. "We're really just going to walk into a trap this obvious?"

 

"We could dance in, if you'd prefer. I know how you are about your choreography. It might even throw our enemies off a little." Hawke swings his hips gracelessly from side to side and snaps his fingers as he walks.

 

Varric shakes his head sadly and brings a large hand up to his face in an effort to shield his eyes. "Hawke, you know I would follow you into the blood-soaked streets of the Black City and back but... please don't dance."

 

Fenris rolls his eyes and huffs, obviously frustrated by the fact that he's not being taken seriously. When he seemingly gives up and slows his pace to fall into step with Anders, Hawke feels his fleeting joy deflate.

 

"Can't you talk some sense into him?" the elf asks, words low as if intended solely for the healer's ears.

 

The momentary flash of surprise on Anders's face before he raises a suspicious eyebrow leaves Hawke wondering if there's more to the expression than simple curiosity. "Why are you asking me?"

 

"Because apparently I am a _joke_ today," Fenris says bitterly at full volume. He shoots a sour look at Hawke, who feels himself frowning before the corner of Fenris's mouth turn up in a viscious smirk. "And because your life has been so _horribly_ tragic," says the elf dramatically, "I was hoping some of your melancholy might rub off on me."

 

Before Hawke even realizes he's speaking, the words are out of his mouth. "Yes, because apparently the last person who _rubbed off_ on you wasn't to your liking."

 

For a rare unguarded moment, Fenris simply stops walking and stares at him in disbelief. Hawke feels the colour drain from his face under the scrutiny and when he sees the set of Fenris's jaw shift forward in his anger, he finds himself completely unsurprised when the elf turns and stalks off in the other direction.


	18. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Anders turns quickly and sprints off in the opposite direction, all Varric can do is shake his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What you're about to read was originally just the first scene of what was to be the next chapter. The second scene of what was supposed to be that _same_ chapter has grown immensely and taken on a life of its own, and so I have separated the two in the interest of posting an update in a relatively timely manner. As such, this chapter is quite short. Forgive me!
> 
> On an unrelated note, I hope that any of you whose lives have been affected by Sandy are all right and that you and yours are safe and well. I've noticed a distinct lack of updates to some of my favourite stories lately and I truly hope you're all well!
> 
> Thank you once again for reading, commenting, kudos-button-clicking, and for just being lovely!

"Have you lost your bloody mind?!" Anders yells more than asks, anger fueling his words and carrying them, amplified, throughout the open Hightown square. The volume with which he speaks is unnecessary, having already closed most of the space between himself and Hawke in a few purposeful strides. Nobles turn at the sudden sound, pulled for a rare moment from their self-absorption to watch the exchange. Merchants pause in restocking their stalls to stare openly, shameless. "What in the name of Andraste's holy _ass_ were you thinking?"

 

Varric, always level-headed, steps between the two men in an attempt to control the situation before the whole of Kirkwall can gather around them and gawk, slack-jawed. "Blondie, you may want to keep your voice dow--"

 

"Not _now,_ Varric," Anders hisses sharply between his teeth, not bothering to turn his eyes away from Hawke's face to address him directly. He takes another step forward, pushing the dwarf aside to further invade the other mage's personal space. In an action uncharacteristic of his usual brash nature, Hawke averts his eyes, turning stormy blue downward to focus on the ground.

 

Apparently having given up on the two of them and opting this time for crowd control, Varric raises an accusatory eyebrow in the general direction of their uninvited audience - an expression that mercifully causes all but the most crude among them to turn back to whatever it is they were doing in the first place. When belabored conversation starts up again around them, Anders repeats his question. His voice is carefully low this time, his tone no less harsh. "What were you _thinking?_ "

 

Hawke shakes his head very slightly, still looking down. When he speaks, he sounds nothing like his usual confident self, the words flat and lifeless as they leave his mouth. "Clearly I _wasn't._ I didn't mean--"

 

"Have you even considered how Fenris feels about what happened between the two of you?" Anders continues, cutting him off and refusing for once to give in to his gentler, soft-hearted side and calm down. "Did you even talk to him about it?"

 

"Anders, I'm sorry... Sometimes I--"

 

"Do you even realize that he's just as hurt by this as you are? That he's losing sleep over guilt that _you've_ put on him just for wanting some bloody company for once? You left him completely and utterly alone to deal with your emotional bullshit and this isn't even his problem! Are you honestly so self-absorbed that you didn't even notice? Didn't _care?_ Or were you too busy feeling sorry for yourself because for once in your life, you didn't get _exactly_ what you wanted?"

 

Hawke looks up from the ground, meeting Anders's anger with defiant, tear-rimmed eyes the colour of the sea at night. Taken aback by the sight of Garret Hawke actually _hurt_ , Anders's soft heart gains a foothold. For the first time since their introduction, he can see clearly what it is that Hawke works so hard to keep hidden behind humour and quick wit. He sees the other man's pain, his loss, and understands it immediately - immutable, overwhelming, and _completely_ unspoken in the interest of appearing strong for those who rely on him. Hawke looks Anders straight in the eye and reveals more about himself in a single glance than he has in three years' worth of easy banter and candid, inebriated conversation over Wicked Grace. Anders is dumbfounded.

 

"You should go after him," Hawke says wearily, blinking his tears away before they even have a chance to fall and quickly regaining his usual composure. "Make sure he's all right. You'll have plenty of time to hate me later, I promise. He could use someone to talk to right now, whether he'll admit it or not."

 

Anders doesn't know what to say. All at once he wants to apologize, to ask for an explanation, to hit the obstinate bastard for keeping everything to himself, even just to keep _yelling_ \- but instead he simply asks: "Why don't you go yourself?"

 

Hawke smiles then, the familiar expression belying the haunted cast of his eyes and the uneasy timbre of his voice but conveying sincerity all the same. "He needs a friend, Anders. I'm obviously not that person. Not right now."

 

Anders opens his mouth to say something - anything, really - but Hawke is already walking away. Looking around, he finds Varric leaning inconspicuously against a wall several feet behind him, in the middle of what appears to be a careful examination of his fingernails. Anders offers him an apologetic look, sorry both for being an inconsiderate ass and for leaving him there alone, but the dwarf simply quirks an eyebrow at him and says "Go on, Blondie. I can take care of myself."

 

When Anders turns quickly and sprints off in the opposite direction, all Varric can do is shake his head. "Oh Bianca," he says with a sigh, "He's got it even worse than we thought."


	19. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to Anders that even dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, lacking his usual layers of leather, metal, and dried blood, Fenris is just as intimidating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read this. I cannot believe the comments and the kudos and the subscriptions. Seriously, you're all phenomenal.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Anders knocks gingerly on the door of the delapidated mansion three separate times before he gives up and just starts yelling at it instead. "Fenris, it's me! Open the bloody door; I know you're in there." When no response comes from within, he huffs and hangs his head for a moment, considering whether or not he should just give up on all of this ridiculousness and leave. It isn't even his problem, not really, but on some level he has to admit to himself that he's genuinely concerned for the disgruntled elf - a thought that he finds mildly unnerving but chooses not to examine any further at the moment. He's also suddenly curious to find out just how well Fenris knows Hawke.

 

"Please don't make me climb in through a hole in the roof," Anders mutters mostly to himself. "I hate climbing things. Maker only knows what I might fall on in this place, too..." He shakes his head, realizing what a perfectly normal sight he must be, standing in the shaded alcove having a friendly conversation with himself. "Just open the blighted door!"

 

"A fine suggestion," Fenris says sardonically from behind him, and Anders manages to contain his surprise to a small, mostly dignified squeak before turning around and glaring at him. Fenris hefts a large linen sack filled with what appears to be food and motions toward the entrance. "It's unlocked, if I'm not mistaken." Without waiting for a response, he pushes past the mage and turns the knob, leaving the door ajar behind him in what might be the closest thing he's ever offered Anders in terms of an invitation.

 

Feeling only marginally more stupid than he usually does in the elf's presence, Anders closes the door and locks it behind him before following up the stairs. Instead of heading straight into the bedroom, Fenris continues down the hall to a small room with which Anders has no familiarity. The space is stark, nearly empty excepting a single storage cabinet, a fireplace, and an excessively ornate wooden table that could only have belonged to the estate's previous occupants. Its once smooth surface is cross-hatched unevenly with knife marks and when the bag of provisions is set down upon it, Anders can't help but smirk a little. Of course Fenris would choose to utilize something so elegant, so obviously expensive, for a task as menial as food preparation. The man certainly has a taste for irony.

 

"How did you manage to get here so quickly?" The elf asks, tone illogically conversational as he starts to move food into the cabinet. Anders looks him over for signs of distress, feeling confused but slightly relieved nonetheless when he doesn't find any. "Last I saw, you were creating quite a spectacle in the market." Fenris doesn't face him when he speaks, opting instead to carefully place apples on the top shelf with a surprising meticulousness that oddly seems to suit him.

 

"Can I ask you something?" Anders asks out of nowhere, the question unexpected even to himself, and Fenris stills his movements but makes no effort to turn around.

 

"I believe I just asked _you_ something," he deflects.

 

Anders rolls his eyes. "That's not evasive," he says, sarcasm coming too easily to his defence. "I ran here, that's how. Is it my turn to speak yet?"

 

Fenris chuckles lowly and continues arranging food. "Would there be any point in my saying no?"

 

"Probably not."

 

"Then yes, I suppose it's your turn."

 

Anders moves from his position in the doorway to lean most of his weight on the table, standing quietly and watching as Fenris tears a small piece of bread from a fresh loaf and pops it into his mouth. When Anders says nothing for a few moments, the elf eventually turns around and raises a suspicious eyebrow before holding out the loaf in offer.

 

"Well?" Fenris asks expectantly, the single word serving as two questions. Anders shakes his head no, seeing something in the set of the other man's jaw as he puts the bread away that makes him wonder. _Is he nervous?_

 

"You don't seem very upset about all of this," Anders finally ventures, wanting to gauge Fenris's response before he goes on.

 

The elf looks pensive for a moment, glancing away and staring into space for several seconds before eventually smirking to himself. "That's not a question," he says curtly, and steps out into the hallway.

 

Anders follows him down the hall and into the bedroom, looking incredulous. "You're joking."

 

"I am not," Fenris says matter-of-factly, unfastening his gauntlets. He moves to place them carefully on an armor stand at the opposite end of the room before proceeding to do the same with his breastplate. "That wasn't a question."

 

"Is there some reason you don't want to talk about this?" Anders asks, feeling remarkably awkward watching the other man remove layers of clothing.

 

"Is there some reason you do?" Fenris asks, finally turning to face him, looking suddenly exhausted. "Did Hawke send you to check up on me? Is that why you're here?"

 

It occurs to Anders that even dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, lacking his usual layers of leather, metal, and dried blood, Fenris is just as intimidating. He frowns, steeling himself for another unwarranted verbal attack in case his response fails to please. "No! Not really. I mean... he did ask me to make sure you were all right, but I'd have followed you regardless of what he wanted."

 

Fenris narrows his eyes and studies him briefly before sighing and shaking his head. "Do you not think me capable of handling my own affairs?"

 

"Of course I do," Anders answers carefully, trying not to let his frustration at being pushed away once again show in his voice.

 

Fenris's expression shifts from suspicion to something foreign, unreadable. "Then why follow?"

 

Anders shrugs and shakes his head helplessly, not entirely sure of his answer to that question. "You seemed upset when you walked off; that's all. I suppose I thought you might want to talk about what happened."

 

To his astonishment, Fenris doesn't lash out like he expects. He does the opposite, in fact, climbing placidly into bed and laying back with his arms behind his head, fingers laced together between his hair and his pillow. Anders's eyes wander the length of his body, stopping to trace the intricate pattern of lyrium on the underside of his arms. He finds himself transfixed, unable to look away, his guilt in doing so apparently not enough to make him stop.

 

Fenris looks up and talks to the holes in the ceiling, either not noticing or not caring. Anders isn't sure which he'd prefer. "Talk about it," the elf scoffs, his voice giving the words a sharp, scornful edge. "To what end? So that I might have _two_ of you publicly sharing every intimate detail of my indiscretion?"

 

Anders is pulled from his inappropriate fixation by the elf's response. "Is that what you consider what happened between the two of you? _Your_ indiscretion?"

 

Fenris turns his head to regard him uneasily. "What would _you_ call it, mage?"

 

Choosing to ignore the label, the _mage_ unbuckles and strips himself of his coat, succumbing to the heat of the day and sitting in just his trousers and undershirt on the edge of the bed. Fenris stiffens visibly at his closeness but says nothing, and all at once Anders wants to reach out and touch him, to give him comfort, to prove that he has no intention of causing him harm. Instead he sits for a moment without moving to give the other man a chance to relax. "I suppose I'd just call it sex. That's what it was, was it not? Sex between two grown men in full possession of their faculties? It's not like you forced him into doing something he didn't want."

 

Fenris frowns and shakes his head minutely, looking confused and perhaps a little concerned.

 

"Fenris, it's not as though Hawke's attraction to you has ever been a secret. We all knew you had a thing for him. It was really only a matter of time before one of you gave in and just let it happen. To be honest, I'm surprised it took as long as it did."

 

Fenris doesn't respond, instead choosing to stare in silence at the ceiling, and when Anders spots the subtle flushing of his cheeks, he can't keep his stupid mouth shut.

 

"Don't tell me you're shy," he says, sounding amused.

 

Fenris looks up at him and narrows his eyes. "I am not accustomed to speaking of such things so... openly."

 

"Sorry," Anders says automatically, raising his hands in a gesture of defence. "I didn't mean anything by it. You've just never been one to mince words, that's all."

 

"I'm not _mincing_ anything," Fenris sneers, tone growing defensive.

 

Anders sighs. "I didn't say you _were._ " He shakes his head, feeling defeated. "Look, if you want me to leave, just say so. I only wanted to make sure you're all right."

 

"I'm fine," Fenris says low in his throat. "I... your concern is appreciated."

 

Anders nods once in acknowledgement, looking down at his feet. Behind him, he can feel Fenris shift on the bed to sit upright against the headboard.

 

"You want to know why I'm not more upset about all of this," he says tentatively, confirming Anders's original question.

 

The mage turns and nods again, expression decidedly neutral. Fenris motions to the empty lower half of the bed in invitation and Anders shuffles back to lean against the wall, toeing his boots off as he does so. He stretches his height out, long legs lying perpendicular to Fenris's own on the plush mattress.

 

"You know how Hawke is when he doesn't get what he wants," Fenris starts.

 

Anders laughs, a single subdued _ha_ that's mostly without humour. "Relentless?"

 

Fenris continues without acknowledging his response. "He internalizes things. Sits with them. Keeps everything to himself in order to preserve some necessary sense of dignity. I've yet to figure out his reasons exactly, but..." Fenris looks quietly down at his own hands in consideration before looking up and meeting Anders's eyes. "I can sympathize."

 

Without thinking, Anders moves his sock-covered foot to rest against Fenris's ankle, unconsciously giving in to the urge to touch, to comfort. When he realizes what he's doing, he finds himself torn between wanting to pull away out of nervousness or move closer out of... something he's not particularly eager to label at the moment. Fenris looks uneasily down to where their bodies touch and rests his eyes there for what feels like a distressingly long time. Neither man moves.

 

"You were angry with him," Fenris says hesitantly after some time, still looking at their feet. "I would like to know why."

 

Anders thinks for a short while. "...He was being an insensitive moron," he says eventually, grateful that the elf's scrutiny lies elsewhere and not on his uncertain expression.

 

"Hawke is often insensitive. You do not usually shout at him for it," Fenris says levelly before turning his head to look straight at Anders, trapping the mage between curious, verdant green and the wall at his back. "Why get angry this time?"

 

Anders sighs, forcing himself to maintain eye contact and regretting the decision at once when he feels something flutter helplessly in the pit of his stomach. Fenris is guarded, not one to wear his feelings outwardly (unless of course _I just might cut you_ qualifies as a feeling), and here he is looking Anders straight in the face, emerald eyes honest, open, _vulnerable_. For the second time in the span of a day, Anders finds himself hopelessly grasping for words clearly intent on escaping him. The only thing his tired mind will supply is _Maker, he's beautiful_ , a thought that - while inarguably true - would most likely lead to physical violence if spoken aloud. _Or would it?_

 

Anders's mind wanders: settles for some reason on a crate of Fereldan crafting reagents and thinks _so very thoughtful_ , remembers the feeling of solid muscle tensing automatically in response to a simple thankful embrace, revels guiltily in the feeling of shared breath and body heat in a stranger's kitchen pantry. He looks down to where their limbs come together, smiles faintly at the foolish blush he can feel rising in his cheeks, and decides that a grown man should be able to speak his mind, damn the consequences.

 

"Maybe I like you, Fenris," he says to their feet, voice surprisingly steady. "Maybe I care about you."

 

Reminding himself to keep breathing, he waits for a response.

 

"...Maybe," Fenris echoes under his breath from a few feet away, the word even less than a whisper.

 

"...Maybe I think Hawke should treat you better," Anders says, looking apprehensively back up at the elf's face. "Maybe I think he should treat you more like a--"

 

"A _friend_?" Fenris finishes for him, and Anders notes with a small, irrepressible shiver that those breathtaking green eyes have fallen on his lips. For a few seconds he doesn't move or speak - can think only of leaning forward to close the distance between them and bring their mouths together - but then Fenris is blinking and returning to himself, skin flushing a lecherous pink as he turns away.

 

Anders clears his throat, shakes his head quickly to rid himself of his ludicrous thoughts, and rises to pull on his coat once again. "We really should grab the others and head out if we plan to make camp by nightfall," he says stiffly.

 

Fenris says nothing, simply nodding his approval rather enthusiastically.


	20. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when the feeling gets to be too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I start every chapter with an apology, don't I? Yes? For the sake of consistency, I'm sorry this took so long.
> 
> Thank you so very, very, very, very much for following this story! I can't believe the reception I've gotten. You're all absolutely wonderful! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter despite the fact that it's a little angsty.
> 
> P.S. cypheroftyr talked me into joining tumblr. I'm commandercritical there and I love new friends!

Fenris weaves effortlessly through the crowded Hightown street, the periodic clenching and unclenching of his armored fists the only outward sign of the turmoil raging within his head. Anders follows hurriedly behind him, legs just long enough that he doesn't have to break into a jog in order to keep up. Both men are silent.

 

Fenris scowls, disquieted by the constant awareness he's developed of the mage's presence as of late. Even several paces ahead, he can feel the tenuous pull of Anders's magic, the inadvertent haze the mage radiates conspicuous, insistent... though admittedly not unpleasant. He used to be able to drown it out, to simply shift his focus elsewhere and be rid of the faint thrumming - a sensation not strong enough to be likened to vibration, not weak enough to be ignored completely. _Just enough to drive a person mad,_ he thinks, and his fingers curl tightly once more at his sides.

 

This was all just another part of Danarius's macabre fantasy, no doubt; make the slave overly sensitive to magic and then drown him in a sea of it, see if he can resist its draw. Failure had been the only possible outcome, wholly inevitable, but Fenris blamed himself still for his lack of willpower. The magister's energy had been different from the others he'd felt; the constancy was the same, the physical pull and eventual gratification undeniable, but beneath it was a perverse and sinister undercurrent when he got too close. His memories of that sensation never fail to send a shiver down his spine, the corruption of the aura still palpable, still reeking of blood and of charred flesh even in its absence. It was motivation enough though, in his disconsolate life as a slave, to make him do even the most degrading and unspeakable things of his own volition. Fenris had never known pleasure, and the inexplicable pulsing of Danarius's aura was the closest recognizable thing to it. Occasionally in the dark hours of the early morning, he still wakes to that creeping sensation - and his body, ever betraying what little he's managed to reclaim of his mind, still reacts to it as if it's something to be sought.

 

Over time Fenris has come to learn that most mages radiate some tangible level of energy when he gets close enough, his travelling companions no exception to the apparent rule. Hawke, for example, has a persuasive pull all his own. It had been the first thing Fenris noticed about him upon their coincidental meeting a few short years ago, after of course the impossible shadowed blue of his eyes and the determined set of his jaw. It was likely what had compelled Fenris to ask for Hawke's assistance in the first place. His was an obvious sensation, refreshing for its clarity and the simplicity of its draw; a completely unspoken yet unquestionable invitation into the man's life. Fenris had accepted it with gratitude.

 

When Hawke is in good humour, when he is well and existing mentally in the present, the draw of his aura is nearly irresistible. The effect isn't unique to Fenris's lyrium brands, either - when Hawke is pleased, everyone is pleased. Fenris is certain that the man's aptly-rumoured magnetism is the same energy he's always felt in his presence, simply manifested instead on an emotional level.

 

There are times when the feeling gets to be too much. When Hawke speaks of the life he left behind in Lothering, of his sister killed senselessly like so many others, of his father's death - the energy becomes overwhelming. It had been unnerving at first, one of the few things that yielded any emotional response from Fenris in the slightest. At the same time, he'd wanted both to flee and to get closer, uncomfortable with the very idea of empathy but drawn nonetheless by the possibility that he could _feel_ just like any other man. In the end he'd given in to his baser instincts against his better judgment.

 

The night he spent with Hawke had been gratifying, a provocative assault on his senses that he's come to realize was _not,_ in fact, a mistake. Fenris was created to be lured by magic and Hawke had been born to lure. Nature was against them both and in some sick way had provided them a necessary service: Hawke came to know that his magnetism alone was not always enough, not always infallible, and Fenris had learned - much to his surprise - that he was capable of acting against his innate disposition and making choices for himself. For one of them, a triumph. For the other, just another blow in a devastating series intent on taking him down.

 

Fenris stares at the door of the Hawke estate, realizing with a small amount of embarrassment that he's likely been standing there for some time. Anders waits quietly behind him, allowing him to process his thoughts uninterrupted while casting out wave after oblivious wave of subtle warmth. The mage's energy is consistent, almost gentle, and loathe as Fenris may be to admit it, the only magic that he's ever thought to describe as _comforting_. He turns to look at the other man, nods once in a silent show of gratitude for his patience, and knocks on the door.

 

***

 

Anders smiles softly as Fenris raps his metal-covered knuckles against the wood, grateful to find that the other man is _not_ ignoring him, but instead seems to be lost in a sea of his own thoughts. Apparently he'd made the right decision in staying quiet and waiting for Fenris to come back to himself. Maybe he _is_ getting to know him a little better after all.

 

At that thought, Anders has to consciously guide his mind away from stolen images of Fenris leaning back in bed, eyes focused for some cruel and unholy reason on Anders's lips as he speaks, a subtle flush creeping over his skin.

 

"Hello!" Sandal shouts cheerfully before he's even fully opened the door, startling Anders from his guilty thoughts and causing Fenris to raise a curious brow.

 

Bodahn pushes his way into the doorway, looking flustered. "Greetings, Messeres! Terribly sorry about that... Sandal gets quite excited when we have visitors. Isn't that right, m'boy?" He says, clapping a large hand on the smaller dwarf's shoulder.

 

Sandal doesn't respond, eyes intently focused for some strange reason on the stiffened points of leather adorning the edges of Fenris's gauntlets. Bodahn's eyes widen slightly in alarm when the boy lifts his hand, reaching out to feel them. Surprisingly, Fenris remains still. Anders watches his sharp intake of breath and the way he holds it in, clearly uncomfortable with the contact but bearing it anyway. Fenris's eyes follow the boy's movements carefully and with great concern but without any malice. Slowly, Sandal's lips spread wide in a grin that dominates his entire face.

 

"Your elbows have talons!" he exclaims with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for small children, and Anders struggles to hold in the surprised laugh that threatens to burst from his throat.

 

Fenris appears utterly blank for a moment before the harshness in his eyes softens and an awkward smile pulls at his lips. The expression makes him look like a different person and Anders stares, taking it in, committing it to memory. "I... Yes, I suppose they do," Fenris admits.

 

Bodahn clears his throat, putting a protective arm around Sandal's shoulders and gently steering him away from the door. When Fenris and Anders move inside, he latches it shut behind them.

 

"Is Hawke here?" Anders asks, more out of politeness than curiosity. Where else would one go but _home_ after being served a diatribe of that magnitude in public?

 

"Master Hawke is in his living quarters, yes..." Bodahn says, his tone hesitant. "Though he has requested not to be interrupted."

 

"Interrupted from what?" Fenris asks, tone a little too sharp, and Anders shoots an apologetic glance in the dwarf's direction. How the man can go from near-gentleness to sharp-edged words so quickly is beyond him.

 

"It wasn't my place to ask, Messere," the man-servant answers tactfully.

 

Clearly dissatisfied with his response, Fenris scoffs. He narrows his eyes, clenching his jaw before turning and walking briskly in the direction of the stairs. Anders frowns but moves to follow, leaving Bodahn with a quick 'sorry' before he hurries away.

 

Hawke's bedroom is stiflingly warm - much like the rest of the estate. _And the rest of Kirkwall and the entirety of the whole bloody Free Marches at the moment,_ Anders thinks, but for some unfathomable reason Hawke himself is sitting on the edge of his bed, wrapped almost entirely in a blanket. In his right hand he holds a bottle of brandy, still mostly full ( _and thank the Maker for that_ ), but open nonetheless. The startled expression on his face when the two of them burst through the door is somewhere between shock and concern, and in any other circumstance it might be enough to make Anders laugh. Instead, he can focus only on the tension he sees in Fenris's shoulders, in the way he holds his jaw, and in his uncharacteristically neutral expression.

 

"Fenris?" Hawke says cautiously, looking puzzled. Then, as an afterthought, "Anders."

 

When Fenris says nothing, Anders clears his throat and offers a mostly redundant "Hello, Hawke."

 

"Something I can help you with?" Hawke asks, sounding more like himself. Anders marvels at the speed with which the man can pull himself together; not that there's much hope in trying to save face at this point. 

 

" _Get up,_ " Fenris says, his words biting. Anders winces at the tone.

 

Doubt flashes across Hawke's face for a split second before he pastes on a signature grin. "That's hardly a friendly greeting, Fenris. Do I come to _your_ mansion and tell you what to--"

 

" _Stop!_ " Fenris growls, stepping harshly toward the bed. Hawke jumps, startled. His smile fades. His eyes widen. "No more jokes," the elf says, lowering his voice. He steps forward again, moving closer to Hawke in an unspoken physical warning. "No more avoidance. No more offhanded comments. No more... _this_." He gestures indiscriminately at the brandy bottle, the bed, the sad man before him. "If you've something to say to me, say it. I will not have this held over my head any longer."

 

Hawke looks up at Fenris meekly and frowns. "I didn't mean to--"

 

" _Please_ ," Fenris says wearily, as if the word pains him. He closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly, dropping his chin to his chest. "Please don't."

 

Anders shifts uncomfortably on his feet, keenly aware of the resulting quiet squeak from the floorboards beneath him. _I shouldn't be seeing this,_ he thinks. He doesn't move.

 

Hawke exhales dejectedly, his shoulders slumping. When he speaks, his words are so low that Anders _feels_ them more than he hears them. "Okay," he says, reaching out and squeezing Fenris's gauntleted hand just once in his own. "Enough now."


	21. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You do realize that the two of them are right there, don't you?" Anders motions ahead with both hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [autumnesquirrel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnesquirrel/pseuds/autumnesquirrel) for helping me fight with this chapter, and to [cypheroftyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cypheroftyr/pseuds/cypheroftyr), [foxghost](http://archiveofourown.org/users/foxghost/pseuds/foxghost), [psikitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/psikitty/pseuds/psikitty), and all of the other lovely folks on tumblr for listening to me ramble incessantly about my writing woes.
> 
> Thank you all so, SO much for reading!

"So which one of them do you think did the _giving_?" Isabela purrs, staring unashamedly at the two men in question as they walk ahead, leaving mismatched footprints in the bleached sand of the Wounded Coast.

 

To Anders, she looks almost _hungry_. He sighs dispairingly. "I told you already; I don't know and I don't _care_."

 

"I'll bet it was Fenris," she says with a devious grin, ignoring him completely. "All power and aggression and that _voice_ of his. Ooooh I wonder if he's a talker."

 

Anders closes his eyes and shakes his head, though whether the action is in disbelief at Isabela's continuous rambling or to shake the idea of Fenris _giving it_ to somebody out of his mind, he doesn't know. Both reasons would be perfectly valid.

 

"Though Hawke can be rather domineering when he wants to be, too. Remember that time at the Rose when we went looking for that grimy bastard's wife? That elf who kept trying to solicit everyone... what was his name again? You know, the mouthy one..." She looks at him briefly, puzzled, before turning her face forward again. "Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter. All I'm saying is that I could definitely see Hawke being the type to just bend someone over and go at--"

 

"Are you nearly done?!" Anders asks shrilly, hoping to cut the conversation off before it can get any more explicit. "You do realize that the two of them are right there, don't you?" He motions ahead with both hands. "That they can very likely hear you? That one of them would probably tear out your heart or your spleen or something if he knew you were hypothesizing about someone... bending him over?" He swallows uncomfortably, feeling keenly aware of the hot sun overhead.

 

Isabela rolls her eyes before looking disapprovingly at him. "Spoilsport. You're only upset because you weren't there."

 

Anders scoffs. "Actually I just happen to like my insides where they are, thank you."

 

"You used to be fun, you know," the pirate says, sidling up to him and slinking a dark, freckled arm around his waist. "Remember that time at The Pearl?"

 

Anders scowls, extricating himself delicately from her grip. Of course he remembers the bloody _Pearl_ \- he remembers it just as well as he remembers every _other_ time he's shared his body with someone else - with perfect clarity, down to every sordid detail. Every moan, every shiver, every squeeze, every bite, every thrust... all of it fantasy fodder for night after solitary night, fucking his own fist to find release. 

 

Anders frowns. "Tell me again how _you_ ended up coming with us instead of Varric," he says bitterly.

 

Isabela sighs, sounding defeated. "Like I said the _first_ time you asked, he's off doing something boring with that greedy guild of dwarves." A single moment of blissful silence before she's back at it again. "Do you even think about sex anymore? Or did that grumpy man who lives in your head kill the little man in your pants, too?"

 

Anders stops walking abruptly. "Excuse me, but the _man_ in my pants is not-- No. You know what? I'm not even going to answer that."

 

Isabela laughs, the sound giddy and warm, and Anders finds himself wanting to smile when she claps a warm hand on his shoulder.

 

"You men are all so prideful," she muses, smiling. "Though if I recall correctly, _you_ may very well have reason to be." She turns and considers him for a moment, running her eyes very obviously down the length of his body to stop at his crotch, an appreciative grin on her lips.

 

Anders flushes despite himself, not used to this kind of attention. An excited nervousness rises in the pit of his stomach, his body giving in far too willingly to the idea of _wanting_. Clearing his throat, he turns and continues walking.

 

Isabela nearly cackles as she jogs to catch up with him, looking satisfied. She raises a single, sharply angled brow. "Still a little bit of the old Anders left in there after all, eh? Good."

 

***

 

Hawke walks more slowly than usual, a day's worth of heavy sun taking its toll on his body, more than a month's worth of carefully avoided conversation taking its toll on his mind. Fenris walks on his right hand side, talking more to his feet and the sand than to Hawke himself. But at least he's talking.

 

"I did not mean to lead you on," Fenris says quietly, reiterating the point for the fourth time - by Hawke's count, at least.

 

"You can stop saying that. I _know_. I told you already that this was my fault, not yours. I shouldn't have assumed that it meant more than it did."

 

Fenris shakes his head adamantly. "I should have been more clear that it--"

 

"Fenris, _please,_ " Hawke says, exhausted. "You're a free man now. Your life is your own. My overly-dramatic emotional response is not your problem."

 

Fenris says nothing, simply keeps walking with his head down, eyes on the sand. Behind them, Isabela chimes periodically with laughter. Waves roll lazily in the distance, carrying the smell of the sea, and Hawke revels in taking breath after deep breath of fresh air for the first time in weeks. The Coast is unusually and mercifully quiet.

 

"Why must you keep reminding me of it, then?" the elf says after a time, and Hawke tries to think back in search of context.

 

"...What?" He asks dumbly, quickly giving up.

 

"If your emotional response is not my problem, why bring it up? You were awfully eager to have me dwell on it this morning." Fenris looks at him with his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched.

 

Hawke sighs, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry, Fenris," he says plainly. "I don't have an excuse for what I said. I... sometimes say things without thinking."

 

Fenris huffs. "You say exactly what's on your mind or you say nothing at all," he says drily. "I'd noticed."

 

Hawke watches the elf closely for a change in expression, a twitch, a tell - anything to indicate his intention with that statement. Finally Fenris gives him a knowing look, the corners of his lips curling slightly in an approximation of a smile. The harshness in his eyes has faded and so Hawke looks forward once again, trying to decide if he should extrapolate further.

 

"I haven't really been with anyone since I left Lothering," he concedes.

 

"I have seen you take many people home," Fenris answers rather quickly, not looking at him.

 

"I didn't know them," Hawke explains. "Not like I know you. I didn't care about them."

 

Fenris nods once, deliberately, but says nothing. Hawke ignores the slight pang in his chest when he realizes that he has no intention of doing so.

 

"I guess I haven't really let myself process a whole lot since we started running," he says, feeling hesitant. "Our home, all we had left to remember our father - gone. Bethany, dead. Carver, a... a blighted _templar_ of all things, after everything we've always fought for, and--" He shrugs before exhaling heavily. "It was too much. Easier to try and forget. I found distractions: a small job here, a delivery there, a dangerous Deep Roads expedition... a new life to bury the old one."

 

He stops talking for a moment, slows his steps even further, chances a worried glance at Fenris. Emerald eyes focus intently on his own, unreadable but far from unkind, and he takes a deep breath. Looking down, he watches the toes of his boots sink and disappear into the sand with each step.

 

"I was doing all right again, I thought. Just living day to day. I had almost forgotten that sick, empty feeling." He shakes his head in disbelief of his own ignorance. "And then there you were, asking to come home with me. All _hands_ and mouth and skin, and I realized just how badly I wanted you. How much I cared about you. I felt something more than _numb_ for the first time since everything went to shit back in Ferelden." Hawke exhales shakily, feeling exposed, foolish, for having blurted out everything at once. Fenris looks at him for a brief moment, the pained expression of his eyes enough to make Hawke's chest ache all over again.

 

"And then I left," Fenris says simply, returning his gaze to the ground.

 

"You couldn't have known," Hawke tries.

 

"I could have," the elf returns bitterly. "Had I asked."

 

Hawke frowns, cursing the words in his head for flowing so easily when they shouldn't and then disappearing whenever saying something - anything at all - would help tremendously. He steps closer to the other man, wanting to express somehow that despite all of the evidence to the contrary, he bears him no grudge. Would _like_ to say that he doesn't regret what happened between the two of them. Instead, all he manages to come up with is a pitiful "Fenris?"

 

The elf turns his head to regard him, clearly exhausted. He offers no response.

 

"Can I hug you?" Hawke asks stupidly, and to his surprise Fenris actually smiles a little, something akin to relief colouring his expression. The elf steps forward stiffly and wraps his arms around him instead of responding.

 

"I'm sorry," Fenris says into the soft fabric covering Hawke's shoulder.

 

"I'm sorry too," Hawke echoes, squeezing him tightly for a few short seconds before letting him go and then turning to survey their surroundings. "We should probably find a place to camp before the sun goes down."


	22. Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sudden sound of water splashing nearby causes both of them to turn and focus abruptly, a shared instinct borne of different but equally unpleasant backgrounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the short(er) chapter this week! Family, holiday preparation, work, and other things to write have left me a very busy (and exhausted) woman. I figured a short update is better than no update for several weeks, right? Yes, let's go with that.
> 
> A big thank you to [cypheroftyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cypheroftyr/pseuds/cypheroftyr/works) for talking me out of destroying this whole thing when it was still pretty rough around the edges. Also just for being awesome.

"I don't like this," Fenris says irritably, cracking a dry branch in half and tossing it with the others into a small pit he's dug in the sand.

 

"You don't like anything," Anders counters automatically, speaking around a mouthful of bread. Staff in hand, he seats himself on the edge of a large, flat rock nearby and begins examining his weapon for wear.

 

Fenris ignores the jibe altogether. "We've been here for hours and have encountered no one. Something is wrong." Straightening from a crouch, he dusts his hands off on his leggings and turns, apparently looking for something.

 

Anders chuckles quietly. "Do you ever think back on your life and wonder when exactly it was that _not_ being ambushed became cause for concern?"

 

Fenris shoots him a flat look and begins digging around in the bottom of Hawke's pack. "No."

 

Anders rolls his eyes, smiling.

 

Fenris only bothers looking for a few moments more before he gives up, an aggravated noise rumbling in his throat. Still elbow-deep in the bag, he turns to the mage. "I don't suppose you brought any matches?"

 

Anders looks back at him, trying to keep his expression as blank as possible, and lifts his hand to fling a tiny ball of flame toward the makeshift fire pit. The dry tinder catches easily, beginning to crackle almost at once, and Anders smirks. When Fenris glares at him, he smiles widely in return. "You're welcome," he quips, and Fenris simply shakes his head. Anders notes with satisfaction that there’s a slight curl to the elf’s lips.

 

The sudden sound of water splashing nearby causes both of them to turn and focus abruptly, a shared instinct borne of different but equally unpleasant backgrounds. When Isabela squeals and the sound of Hawke's booming laughter follows immediately afterward, Fenris's posture softens. Anders lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he'd been holding.

 

"It's good to finally hear him laughing again," he says without much thought, only realizing when the elf shoots him a questioning look that his comment might be misconstrued as blame. "What?" he adds immediately, trying to keep his tone light. "I would say the same about you. You know, if you had a sense of humour."

 

Fenris abandons Hawke's pile of belongings and makes his way toward Anders, looking amused. When he sits down on the smooth, sun-warmed surface of the rock next to him, the mage gives him a quick smile and goes back to checking his staff, examining the thick leather twine that binds the blade to the end of its length.

 

"Has that ever been sharpened?" Fenris asks casually.

 

The rough timbre of his voice is even more obvious this short distance from the mage's ear, and Anders is struck suddenly with the ridiculous notion that he'd like to reach out and feel the low vibration of the words against Fenris's throat. Shaking his head a little too enthusiastically, he forces himself to work out the meaning of the elf’s question instead.

 

"No," he manages to answer, trying far too hard just to keep his tone even.

 

_This is ridiculous,_ he scolds himself internally. _You are not a horny teenaged boy and you haven't been in a very long time. Calm yourself._

 

Out loud, he says "I suppose I haven't put much thought into it." He tilts his head in consideration and thumbs the double-beveled edge of the metal. "I try not to use it unless I'm out of other options."

 

Fenris eyes the blade judiciously. After a moment he turns to face Anders, expression thoughtful. "You're referring to situations when things get... too close?" he asks.

 

Anders nods once, slowly, trying not to focus on how the setting sun's light plays off the warmth of Fenris's skin. "Yes," he answers a little unsteadily. "Too close." He looks away, forcing one end of his staff down into the sand at their feet. When he lets go, it remains standing on its own. "Or when I can't use magic."

 

The elf looks pensive for a moment, turning to consider the weapon. "That would make the blade your last line of defense then, correct?"

 

Anders raises an eyebrow. "Not my _last_ , exactly," he says, thinking of Justice and pointedly not vocalizing that thought. "But it is one of them, yes." He looks at the elf suspiciously. "Why?"

 

Fenris raises an eyebrow right back, not smiling but not scowling either. Anders thinks he looks almost... _civil? Pleasant?_ "I suppose it just seems strange to me that a person as concerned with their freedom as yourself would neglect something so crucial."

 

Anders doesn't know how to respond to that, really. Before he can comprise anything reasonable to say, Fenris gets up and goes back to dig for something in the group's collective pile of belongings. He returns a few moments later, pack in hand, evidently having more luck this time than he did with the matches. Beside Anders, he lays out a worn file the length of his forearm, a similarly weathered whetstone, and a tiny vial of what appears to be oil. Anders eyes the latter, smiling faintly at the memory of carrying a similar vial nearly everywhere when he was in Ferelden - albeit for completely different reasons.

 

Fenris reaches for the staff where it stands propped in the sand, stopping just a little short of grabbing it to turn and face the mage. "May I?" he asks, surprisingly considerate, especially concerning something associated with the casting of spells.

 

"It's enchanted," Anders replies carefully, not wanting to say no but wanting just as equally not to end up with Fenris angry or caught off guard. "Will it react with your...?" He motions hesitantly toward the lines of lyrium that trace Fenris’s skin, unsure how to address them.

 

For some strange reason, the other man smiles at that - diverts his eyes for a moment before bringing them back up to meet Anders’s. “The lyrium? No. Not unless I want it to.”

 

“Go ahead then,” Anders says, choosing not to question Fenris about his reaction, instead changing the subject. “Do you know I’ve seen people sharpen blades a hundred times before but never bothered to learn how myself?”

 

Fenris pulls the staff from the sand and sits back down on the other side of his tools, leaving a fair amount of space between himself and the mage. “Why am I not surprised?” he asks sardonically, then in the same breath, “Steady that end.” He nods in Anders’s direction. Leveling the weapon so that it’s horizontal, he lays its length across both their laps, blade end resting on his own. 

 

Anders does as he’s instructed, gripping the wood with both hands and noting the diligence with which Fenris handles the staff. “You’ve done this before,” he says rather than asks, sounding more surprised than he intends.

 

Fenris turns at the waist to grab the metal file from the surface of the rock between them. For a moment, he stops and looks Anders straight in the eye, the corner of his lip twitching very slightly when he does. “I imagine you would be surprised by a lot of the things I can do.”


	23. Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anders glowers at him. “Is there a point in there somewhere or do you just enjoy making me feel stupid?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies (again, I know) for the time it took me to write and post this chapter.
> 
> Honestly I cannot thank you all enough for your comments, kudos, and clicks! Earlier this week I found myself with zero motivation to do anything creatively, and then I re-read all of the lovely things you've said about this story and knew I had to force myself to sit down and write again.
> 
> Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou for your kindness!

Anders realizes that he’s staring. He also realizes that now would be a fantastic time to stop doing that and do _anything else_ instead; perhaps laugh or respond with something equally ambiguous, equally suggestive. Words would work. Sounds would work. Blinking might even be helpful.

 

Instead he sits dumbly, looking puzzled, and tries to determine exactly what Fenris had intended by saying... _that._

 

Thankfully, the elf doesn't seem to notice the lack of response. With the heel of his left hand, Fenris steadies the tip of the blade against his leather-clad thigh. In his other hand, he holds the rough file he’d dug out of his pack earlier. Angling it closely with the metal’s edge, he begins filing away from himself in even strokes, pushing the tool down toward the ground between his knees.

 

“Were this in better condition, we could skip this step and just use the whetstone.” He says, focused on his task.

 

Anders frowns. “It’s not _that_ bad, is it? I mean it’s not as sharp as it could be but it’s still a blade.”

 

Fenris scoffs. “It is a _small_ blade,” he says, stopping abruptly to look at the mage with an expression that on anyone else would clearly be disdain, but that on him - Anders has come to believe - may just as easily be amusement. “Made with a questionable metal I cannot identify and strapped clumsily to a wooden pole with random scraps of hide.”

 

Anders glowers at him. “Is there a point in there somewhere or do you just enjoy making me feel stupid?”

 

“Do you feel stupid?” Fenris asks, curious.

 

“A little,” Anders admits, and then chuckles because he simply can’t help himself. “It’s one of the many benefits of your company, you know - a keen awareness of one’s flaws.”

 

For all his usual harshness, Fenris wears guilt remarkably well. When he quickly averts his eyes and goes back to filing, Anders winces at his own tactlessness.

 

“I didn't mean anything by that,” he tries lamely. “I was only joking.”

 

The elf barely shakes his head, tone dismissive. “It was warranted.”

 

Without pause, he tilts the end of the staff upward to examine the blade’s edge in the remaining light from the sun. Anders leans over to get a closer look, not really sure what he should be noticing.

 

“Have you considered the amount of force you’d need in order to puncture something with a blade this dull?” Fenris asks. In a crude demonstration, he grips the weapon and stabs it into the open air to his left, pulling it easily from the mage’s hands where he’d been holding it steady on his lap. “If you’re in a dire enough situation that you have to rely on it for defense, what are the odds you have the energy left to exert that kind of force?"

 

"Not good, " Anders replies, though the answer is obvious. 

 

"Or enough open space to swing it hard enough to compensate?”

 

“Also not good." 

 

Fenris sets the staff back down across their laps and turns to move the whetstone and oil out from the space between them. Grasping the file and steadying the blade against his thigh once more, he tilts his head in a nonverbal “come here”. Anders hesitates for a moment before shimmying very slightly closer.

 

Fenris rolls his eyes. “I am not going to bite you, Mage.”

 

Anders looks at him and raises a single suspicious brow. “Mage again, is it?”

 

The elf sighs.

 

“ _Anders,_ ” he concedes, drawing out the name and looking flatly at the man in question. “Come here.” He pauses for a moment before adding a very deliberate “If you would.”

 

Anders complies, chuckling to himself.

 

“I didn’t realize you were familiar with that phrase,” he jests, and Fenris doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have to; the look on his face says _shut up_ for him. Anders grins. “Was that _really_ so difficult?”

 

“Yes,” Fenris answers curtly, not bothering to hide the hint of a smile pulling at his lips.

 

Sitting this close, the heat radiating off of Fenris’s body is palpable. Even beside the fire, the summer heat already bordering on excessive, Anders relishes the feeling of a warm body next to his. He tells himself it’s because it’s been so bloody long since he’s been close to anybody - reasons that a full year spent in a cell with only a feeble and twisted mind for company would make any person perpetually hungry for contact - but what he can’t justify is the inexplicable urge he has just to sit and _stare_ at the man.

 

Over the water, the setting sun paints the sky a rare and promising shade of red, the warmth of the light drawing Anders’s eyes like magnets to thoroughly tanned skin. He follows the strong line of Fenris’s arm, watches muscle shift beneath skin as the file moves along the blade’s length.

 

“The angle here is important, ” Fenris says, turning to see if the mage is listening, and Anders has to jerk his eyes quickly upward to focus on the elf’s face. Fenris stills, seemingly frozen for a fraction of a second before he blinks and looks immediately back down to the weapon in his lap.

 

Anders curses himself. _Very subtle,_ he thinks, closing his eyes. _There’s no way he missed that._ He swallows hard, steeling himself for the other man’s reaction.

 

Fenris clears his throat.

 

“Your turn,” he says, quietly enough that Anders questions whether he really said anything at all; it isn’t until Fenris holds the metal file out to him that he realizes he’d heard correctly. Grasping one end of the tool, he slides it carefully out of the elf’s hand. In the near silence of the camp, he can hear the rough texture of unfinished metal passing over calloused skin. The sound makes him shiver.

Fenris doesn’t take his eyes off the blade when Anders leans over him, just sits stiffly and moves his right arm out of the way to give the mage more space to maneuver. His left hand remains where it is, steadying the weapon on top of his thigh. Hesitantly, Anders brings the file to meet the edge of the blade and tries his best to duplicate the other man’s process, making slow strokes toward the ground. The sound of metal on metal starts goosebumps crawling on his skin, the subtle hum of lyrium in the back of his mind certainly not helping the situation.

 

“Closer,” Fenris says right in Anders’s ear, then grasps the mage’s wrist to adjust the angle himself. The elf's hand is warm, something Anders finds surprising, though he doesn’t know why. For a moment he halts his movements and guiltily allows himself to enjoy the contact, however pragmatic it may be. “You want the edge to be gradual, not blunt.”

 

Anders nods, willing himself not to focus on Fenris’s fingers where they remain wrapped around his wrist even after he continues moving. In his mind, he reaches for Justice - knowing that if anything can stop his thoughts from wandering to inappropriate places, it’s _him_ \- but the spirit doesn't answer, lost as he is in the lyrium song.

 

“This is a skill you picked up in Tevinter?” Anders asks, hoping the question isn't offensive. He wants to stop the conversation from dissolving, to keep Fenris comfortable enough that he doesn't feel the urge to run away, or worse, to lash out again.

 

Fenris stiffens slightly at the mention of the place but grumbles a sound of agreement in the back of his throat. “One of the few duties I had which was not entirely unpleasant. Danarius kept many staves. Daggers, knives, my own sword - caring for them was the closest thing to respite I had. I used to dread running out of blades to sharpen.”

 

Anders stops the _I’m sorry_ that comes to him before it can make it past his lips, knowing that the other man wouldn’t appreciate it. “Do you think about Tevinter often?” he asks instead, and feels the body behind him relax a little despite the topic, as if Fenris had read his thoughts and was prepared to be on the receiving end of his pity. Not for the first time, Anders feels the overwhelming urge to hug him. Not that he would appreciate that, either.

 

“For a long while I tried not to,” Fenris says, his tone even. Anders stops filing and turns to face him, finding himself practically in the elf’s lap, calloused fingers still loosely gripping his wrist. “I see little point in dwelling on it now. Though I’d be lying if I said that stopped me from thinking about it.” Fenris glances down to where their skin meets and takes in an unsteady breath, eyes lingering there. 

 

Anders barely resists the urge he has to close his free hand around those tanned fingers, to keep them where they are, warm and rough against the sensitive skin inside his arm. The last thing he wants to do is make the other man feel trapped. Even so, he can’t help the “Don’t--” that escapes his mouth the moment Fenris moves to let go.

 

Emerald eyes meet his own in an instant, questioning but otherwise unreadable, and Anders feels his skin flush with the realization that he’s just given himself away. _Say something!_ his mind unhelpfully suggests, offering nothing beyond that in the way of assistance. He fumbles for words, unable to piece together anything coherent under Fenris’s scrutiny.

 

When he hears the sound of distant chatter, recognizes Isabela’s familiar giggle as it draws nearer, Anders doesn't know whether he feels relieved or disappointed. Clearing his throat, he shifts his weight to his legs and stands, intending to put some distance between himself and the elf before the others get back and read too much into their proximity.

 

When Fenris grabs his wrist again and squeezes it firmly, just once, before letting go a mere moment later, it’s all he can do to keep his balance.


	24. Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no clouds, only a vast sea of stars that mirrors the one below and the full, round face of the moon to reflect upon it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all amazing. Thank you so much for your support! I'm really glad you're enjoying this. =)
> 
> I'm actually quite happy with the way this chapter turned out. If you know me at all, you'll know just how much of a rarity that is. I hope I haven't just lost my mind.

_Foolish,_ Fenris berates himself as he stalks through the sand, enjoying the slight burn in his calves brought on by the uneven terrain. He shakes his head, uttering a sound in the back of his throat that roughly expresses what he’s feeling. Frustration? Disquiet? It doesn’t matter.

He stops walking abruptly, realizing that he hasn’t even considered where he’s going, and looks out at the still, black water of the sea. Even without the constancy of the sun the air is heavy, humid, and it settles on Fenris’s skin like a heavy shroud. The uninvited contact is both familiar and disturbing. Sighing, he drops down to sit sullenly in the sand and drapes slender arms over his knees, green eyes watching vigilantly in the dark.

It had been easy enough to get away from the others for some solitude. For once Hawke hadn’t questioned Fenris’s desire to be alone, likely accepted that the day’s events would require some contemplation to process. What he probably hadn’t known was that Fenris’s mind wasn’t lingering in the same place as his own.

Fenris had spent more than enough time ruminating over what had happened between the two of them, their overdue conversation merely solidifying what he’d already hoped but didn’t want to assume: that Hawke had reacted the way he did not because he had legitimate romantic feelings for Fenris, but instead because he was lonely, confused, and still coming to terms with his grief. Fenris didn’t feel any compulsion to mentally reiterate their discussion because he’d been over and over the fine details ad nauseam for the better part of two months. There was nothing left to contemplate.

Tilting his head back to rest its weight on his shoulders, he takes in the night sky. There are no clouds, only a vast sea of stars that mirrors the one below and the full, round face of the moon to reflect upon it. Fenris wishes for a distraction, would very much like to think of something other than _mages_ and the trouble they bring, but the silence of the evening doesn’t offer much in the way of assistance. Even the water is perfectly still, no breeze to stir the waves or carry them to lap against rock and sand. This far out, he’s even beyond the low chatter of his companions back at camp.

Removing the gauntlet first from one hand and then the other, Fenris idly picks up a handful of sand and watches the grains as they fall fluidly through his fingers. It is a pleasant enough sensation, and familiar, one that brings to mind memories better forgotten of his time spent in Seheron. He would find himself on the beach often, sitting with his hands full of sand, contemplating the impossible number of grains and trying to come to terms with a freedom he’d never even thought to seek. When his mind wanders of its own volition to memories of the rebels who had unquestioningly taken him in, a sad smile pulls at his lips.

Not far away, a faint sound disturbs the silence. In an instant, Fenris has both ungauntleted hands on the pommel of his sword, ready to attack if necessary. For several moments he simply sits and listens, hearing only the gentle sloshing of water, and decides that the source of the sound is likely unaware of his presence. Carefully, he pulls on his gauntlets and rises slowly to his feet. Keeping his stance low, Fenris makes for the long outcropping of rock several metres away. It is only when the movement in the water stops once more that he chances a look around the stone’s edge.

Letting out his breath in a huff, he shakes his head and lowers his blade. False alarm.

Further down the beach, Anders stands with his bare feet in the water, battered boots and socks discarded not far behind him in the sand. Long fingers move deftly to unfasten the toggles of his coat one by one, and when he frees himself of it and tosses it to land near the rest of his discarded belongings, Fenris has the presence of mind to avert his eyes. Unsure of the proper decorum in such a situation, he lowers himself to the sand again and sits for several moments, staring blankly at the ground.

Surely he should say _something_ \- call attention to his own presence before the mage manages to undress himself fully - but despite all logic and the apparent will to do so, Fenris remains silent. With a soft _thwap_ and the quiet scattering of sand, he knows that Anders is rid of his shirt. With another, his pants. When the sound of splashing water starts and stops again a few short seconds later, Fenris glances once more in his direction.

Anders’s skin is the palest Fenris can recall ever having seen, a stark contrast to the fluid darkness around him, and in the light of the full moon it nearly casts its own glow. The man’s hair is free of its omnipresent leather tie, not bothering as usual to play - and _fail_ \- at any semblance of order. Its length comes to rest just shy of his shoulders, ends uneven as if cut in haste or frustration... and most likely with a dull blade. It too seems to radiate its own light.

It occurs to Fenris that in more than three years spent travelling as close acquaintances, he’s never seen Anders unclothed. In fact the most the mage has ever exposed to him of his skin had been earlier in the day, the two of them arranged awkwardly on his own bed, Anders having removed his ridiculous coat in favor of comfort in the stifling heat of the afternoon. Even then, he’d only bared his arms. Perhaps unexpectedly, the muscle under that lightly-freckled skin of his was well-defined - significantly more so than most of the mages Fenris had known, anyway - the only exception in his memory being Hawke.

Perhaps mages are cut of a different stock in Ferelden, or perhaps it’s only because the two men in question are apostates, accustomed to a life of fleeing and fighting for their freedom. Fenris knows well enough the importance of self-sufficiency in such a situation, loathe as he is to compare their pasts with his own.

Pulling him out of his thoughts, Anders sinks down to his shoulders in the water and lets out a soft sigh, barely audible even to Fenris’s sensitive ears. For some reason he doesn’t care to contemplate at the moment, Fenris feels simultaneously relieved and disappointed when that smooth-looking skin disappears. Both reactions are equally troubling, and a breath of air he was unaware he’d been holding unsteadily escapes his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut reflexively, trying in vain to shut out the source of his disquiet.

If he were to attempt it now, he knows he could leave quietly enough not to draw any attention to himself, to escape undetected instead of staying where he is, an uninvited spectator to something Anders obviously makes an effort to keep private. That he’s even taking the time to consider such a thing instead of _moving_ is unsettling further still, a testament to his wavering self-control as of late.

There had been a moment earlier in the day - _two_ moments, if Fenris was being completely honest with himself - when he had felt something genuinely disconcerting. It had been an unnerving feeling he didn’t think he’d be dealing with again so soon, something inarguably foolish that he’d do well to ignore completely instead of entertain. Acknowledging it was one thing, something he could do, however begrudgingly, given his hyper-awareness of every flaw within himself, but _acting_ on his ill-advised attraction was another.

Twice that day, he’d nearly leaned in. Twice, he’d found his eyes drawn to Anders’s mouth, a constant source of annoyance and irritation over the years, more recently the source of a great deal of inner conflict and confusion.

That the mage has become a companion of sorts, he can nearly accept. A life spent in the company of mages has acclimatized Fenris to such a thing, and the past few years spent with Hawke and his unique group of friends has taught him that maybe not _all_ mages are alike. Perhaps if Anders was only a mage - even as vocal and relentless and _infuriating_ as he is at times - Fenris could accept his camaraderie, his attempts to reach out and forge some bizarre kind of quasi-friendship. Perhaps he could even appreciate the gesture.

But Anders is not simply a mage.

Fenris shakes his head, growls in irritation at himself before remembering the necessity of remaining silent in his current position. When he turns abruptly to see if the mage has heard him, he immediately regrets doing so.

Anders is standing once again, wet hair tucked neatly behind his ears, uneven streams of moisture running from the back of his neck down and over his shoulder blades. From where he’s crouching, Fenris has nearly a full view of the other man’s back, the mage angled only slightly enough away that his face is shaded by the dark.

Fenris’s eyes travel downward despite his best intentions, taking in the pale expanse of skin before him, the curve of the other man’s spine and the swell of his ass where it disappears under the water. Anders is lean, unsurprising given his life on the run and his current setup in Darktown, but his frame is solid, strong. Even bathing alone his posture carries an unlikely air of pride, a determined sort of comfort with himself that Fenris has to admit is alluring.

Initially he had thought the man prideful and arrogant, much like the magisters he’d been made to serve in Tevinter. Watching Anders work over the years, however - seeing him repeatedly heal others with a foolish, blatant disregard for his own well-being - has taught Fenris otherwise. While the mage can certainly be smug at times, he at least possesses some humility, some kindness.

Anders raises long arms to wring the water out of his hair, the movement pulling muscles to shift beneath his skin and water to run with renewed vigor down his back. The fleeting streams flow over his shoulder blades, losing momentum around the same place that Fenris’s eyes pause and then quickly narrow. _Are those--?_

Scars, yes - reddened welts that stand out angrily against the mage’s porcelain skin even fully-healed as they are - shapes with which Fenris is intimately familiar. Anders has seen punishment, perhaps torture. From the number of markings visible even in this low light, he’s seen it more than once. Fenris frowns, feeling guilty. Years ago, when Hawke had still been insistent that the two of them _put aside their differences,_ he’d told Fenris they had more in common than he knew. It seems now that he’d been right.

Fenris closes his right hand into a tight fist where it sits atop the sand, struggling helplessly against the images trying to push their way forward in his mind. Fellow slaves - _new_ slaves, some merely children - lined up to receive blows from the whip in his Master’s hands. Fenris shakes his head, sick with himself even for _holding_ such memories, and moves to get up.

He had done nothing to stop it.

Fenris manages a single step in his crouched position before a quiet sound reaches his ears, freezing him in place. _Was that--? No._ For several moments he remains where he is and listens closely, waiting to see if he’d imagined it. When the sound comes again - a hushed gasp that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end - he swallows deliberately and closes his eyes. For some reason he cannot identify, Fenris knows exactly what he’ll see if he turns around - _knows_ that behind the battered wall of rock at his back, the mage is standing up to his hips in the water, touching himself.

Foolishly, he turns around anyway.

Anders’s head is tilted back just far enough for Fenris to see that his eyes are closed, his bottom lip held between his teeth in a futile attempt to stay quiet. His right arm disappears under the surface just below the elbow, and though the ripples in the surrounding water suggest movement, it is still for the moment. When the muscles in his forearm shift and push his veins to bulge slightly under the skin, the mage moans quietly in his throat. The thought of Anders gripping his cock and _squeezing_ causes Fenris’s own to stir inside tight leather. Closing his eyes once again, he struggles to come to his senses.

_Leave,_ he commands himself, _you will not watch him do this._ As if in defiance, his toes sink further into the sand. He can feel his pulse now, every beat of his heart pumping blood downward, making him grow progressively more uncomfortable inside his leggings.

Anders moans softly again, the gentle sound of water lapping against skin forcing Fenris to open his eyes once more, to _watch_ as the other man strokes himself slowly just under the surface. The visual is enough to stop him from thinking clearly, and with an inaudible _venhedis!_ he cautiously removes his gauntlets. Fingers shaking as he reaches to struggle with knotted laces, he realizes he’s holding his breath. Exhaling slowly, silently, he pulls himself free.

Anders keeps his pace steady, maddening, and despite wanting to speed up, to grip himself tighter, Fenris mirrors his actions as closely as possible. Only when the mage stills does he still, allowing himself to squeeze slightly, to run his thumb up and over the exposed head of his cock to gather the slick there. Only when the mage’s hips start to rock unconsciously with the quickening movement of his arm does he allow himself to stroke faster. Only when the mage’s mouth falls open, jaw slack in his pleasure, does Fenris forget exactly who he’s watching and imagine that it’s _Anders_ jerking him, _Anders_ squeezing tighter, _Anders_ stroking him rapidly and not stopping until every last drop of his release is painting the sand on the beach.

Only when his breathing slows and his eyes open again does he realize just what the implications of those thoughts are.


	25. Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders can’t decide whether he wants to hit the two of them or set them on fire. He settles for a heavy sigh instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am so beyond sorry for the delay in updating this! Winter affects my health in some pretty detrimental ways and I haven't felt much like doing anything. Forgive me.
> 
> Thank you all so very, very much for reading! I don't know what I'd do without you, honestly.

Anders squeezes his eyes shut against the insistent light of the morning sun, trying hopelessly to will it away. There’s a dull ache in his back and a kink in his neck from sleeping on the ground. Uncomfortable as he is, however, the thought of getting up and moving in this bloody _heat_ isn’t particularly compelling. Any hope of staying where he is fades when Hawke leans over him, casting him in shadow.

“Anders, stop lazing about and get up!” He barks, not unkindly. Without waiting for a response, he moves to perch upon a rock not far away and begins the arduous process of stuffing his bedroll back into its pack. Beside him Isabela fusses with the laces of her corset, drawing them tighter and wiggling into the garment’s adjusted shape.

Anders mumbles something unintelligible, automatically willing healing magic into his back and neck as he sits up, stretching. His voice is still hoarse from sleep when he responds. “Whatever happened to ‘good morning’?”

Hawke’s exhaustion is plainly visible even behind his cocky grin, but at least he appears to be making an effort. “You know I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony,” he replies.

Anders smiles as he stands, grateful that the man is attempting to act like himself once again. Getting up, he looks around for the missing member of their entourage but doesn’t spot him. “Did Fenris even come back last night?” He asks, hoping the question comes off as casual.

Isabela shoots Hawke an obviously conspiratorial glance before tilting her head toward the path leading down to the beach. “He came back not long after you turned in, sweet thing. Got up before you, too. I think he’s gone to cool off.”

“He brought your staff with him when he wandered back,” Hawke adds, voice laced with obvious suspicion. “When I first saw him with it, I actually thought he might snap it in half. Imagine my surprise when he told me he’d been _sharpening_ it for you.”

Isabela seats herself next to Hawke and slinks an arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder. The man grins. “Tell me Anders, does Fenris _handle your staff_ often?” He asks, winking at Isabela when she giggles in response.

Anders can’t decide whether he wants to hit the two of them or set them on fire. He settles for a heavy sigh instead. “Are you still on about that?” He asks, trying to keep his tone light and succeeding only marginally. It’s less than a second before his terrible Diamondback face gives him away; despite being genuinely annoyed, he finds himself wanting to smile at memories of the previous evening. Isabela squeals, evidently delighted.

“I told you!” Hawke exclaims, sounding very much like a child - very much like his _brother_ , actually - and a part of Anders stirs, agitated at the thought of the templar.

“You told her,” he says to Hawke through clenched teeth, eyes narrowed. “Of all the people you know, you chose to tell _Isabela_.”

“Hey!” the pirate starts, failing to look even slightly offended, “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“Actually--” Hawke cuts in, taking a moment to look at the two of them appraisingly, “Varric knows too.” Isabela laughs.

Anders does not.

“You’re joking,” he manages, though he knows that Hawke isn’t. The other man gingerly removes himself from the pirate’s hold and stands, moving to wrap an arm around Anders’s shoulders. He bristles at the contact.

“Oh relax, Anders. It’s just a harmless crush.”

“Harmless?!” Anders snaps, laughing drily and pulling away with too much force. Hawke frowns. “It would be harmless if the person in question wouldn’t dismember me if he found out! This is _Fenris_ we’re talking about. You know, that angry, mage-hating elf who follows you about and occasionally tears out peoples’ insides?” He takes a deep breath, huffs, and shakes his head, all too aware of how hysterical he must sound. “And exactly what part of _I don’t have a thing for him_ did you not understand?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hawke spits back heatedly, stepping into Anders’s personal space in an attempt to intimidate. “The part where you blatantly lied to my face about it, perhaps?” He traps Anders with his eyes, glancing back and forth from pupil to pupil as if searching for weakness. After a moment, he drops his gaze to the sand and exhales slowly. “Look, we’re not going to say anything to him,” he says defeatedly, turning to face Isabela where she sits behind him, watching the two of them intently.

“My lips are sealed, I swear,” the pirate says, pursing them in demonstration.

Anders rolls his eyes. “Isabela, I doubt there’s any part of you that’s _ever_ been a secret.” He shakes his head again before turning and walking back toward his bedroll, sighing to himself as he does.

He’ll have to apologize to her later. Right now, he just needs to calm down.

***

“I don’t understand,” Anders announces out of nowhere, breaking his uncharacteristic silence and pulling Fenris from quiet contemplation. “How are you not sweating in all of that?” he asks, waving his hand at the elf’s armor to signify his meaning.

“I’m wearing less than you are,” Fenris answers flatly, irritable and feeling sticky from the heat. He supposes he should be grateful that the other man was quiet for any length of time at all.

“Well yes, but linen at least _breathes_ a little,” Anders replies, brushing his hand over one rolled-up sleeve. “What you’re wearing is black and heavy and...” He gives Fenris a quick once-over, head to toe, and the elf turns abruptly to look in the other direction, feeling remarkably uncomfortable with his examination. “Skin-tight.”

Fenris clears his throat. “I did spend the majority of my life in Minrathous,” he manages, still looking away. “I am accustomed to the heat.” Forcing himself to turn back and look Anders in the face, he adds “I also wasn’t permitted to _whine incessantly_ about the weather.”

Anders rolls his eyes, irises the colour of polished amber catching the sunlight as he does so.

Fenris turns and quickens his steps at that thought, taking longer strides along the meandering trail. What he needs is a little space - to distance himself from the mage, to gain better control of whatever it is that’s going on inside his obviously deranged mind. All he wants is to catch up with Hawke and Isabela ahead, locate whatever it is they’re hoping to find out here, and return to Kirkwall.

The mansion may even be cool inside, enclosed as it is by the surrounding manors, shielded from the worst of the sun. It doesn’t matter either way. What matters is that the place is empty, that it is his and his alone, and that it’s free of the kind of temptation he evidently hasn’t the willpower to resist.

Fenris thinks of collars, of runes and prison cells and Tal-Vashoth, anything to clear his mind of the persistent images of Anders it seems only too eager to recall from the previous evening: blond hair loose of its tie, bottom lip held between clenched teeth in an attempt at restraint, fair skin marred with scars from a past Fenris has never cared to know - until now.

And that’s the problem, of course; at some point in time Fenris had started to care.

“We should move on,” he mutters under his breath, and walks a little faster. He can almost feel Anders’s frown behind him.

 

***

 

“Isn’t this about the place where we usually get ambushed?” Hawke asks, staff in his hands poised to attack.

“I don’t think it counts as an ambush if they rush you in the same place every time,” Isabela replies, re-sheathing the daggers at her back and shifting her attention to dig through a crate full of junk.

“There’s no one here,” Fenris confirms from farther up the path, sword already fastened to his back. “The entire camp’s been abandoned.”

“Who would just leave all of this here?” Isabela asks, clasping a length of frayed rope in one hand and a moth-eaten scarf in the other.

Hawke laughs. “Someone with more discerning tastes than yourself, apparently.”

Isabela tries and fails to scowl at him, smiling as she tucks the junk into his pack.

“Whoever it was left not too long ago,” Anders adds from not far away, poking at a small fire pit with the bladed end of his staff. “These coals are still smoldering.”

“We haven’t seen anyone all day,” Fenris refutes immediately, nearly flinching when Anders turns in his direction to pin him with an aggravated stare.

“I’m aware of that,” he says curtly, tone defensive as if Fenris had insulted him personally and not merely stated the obvious. Beside him, Hawke and Isabela share a loaded look. Fenris narrows his eyes. _I’ve missed something._

“You said there’s nothing up ahead, Fenris?” Hawke asks, an obvious ploy to draw his attention. 

The elf shakes his head in response but continues watching Anders, deliberately not giving the other man what he wants. “More of the same. Empty campsites, belongings left behind.”

“And the caverns?”

“Seemingly unguarded.” _Why is he looking at me like that?_

“I think we should check them out anyway,” Hawke presses, undeterred.

“Of course you do,” Anders mutters, giving Fenris one more pointed glance  
before moving to follow Hawke up the trail.

 

***

 

“Something is amiss,” Fenris says from somewhere off to the right, and Anders scoffs despite himself.

“Right, because that’s _not at all_ foreboding,” he quips, a sour expression colouring his face when the elf steps back into view. Even in the high humidity, wandering as they are through a dank and poorly-lit cave, the bastard looks completely put-together. He looks _good_ , actually, a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin and slicking a few stray pieces of impossibly white hair to his forehead. When Anders finds himself wanting to reach out and brush them back, he shakes his head and turns to look forward, cursing internally.

“Is it just me or are you even grumpier than usual?” Isabela asks, voice echoing hollowly around them.

“You know Anders isn’t fond of the dark,” Hawke says dismissively.

Anders laughs, the sound completely devoid of humour. “Yes, that’s it! The _dark_ is bothering me. It’s got nothing to do with the probability of giant spiders or rusted metal traps or explosive floor plates that your friends fail to warn you about until _after_ you’ve stepped on them--”

“That was one time!” Isabela shouts, her sudden volume earning a stern eye from the rest of the group. “To be fair, everything was on fire at the time,” she goes on, voice lowered, “I couldn’t even see you.”

“She’s got a point, actually.” Hawke supplies. “You do that a lot, Anders.”

“Thank you Hawke, that’s very helpful," the mage snipes, glaring at him.

“And that thing you do with those sticky drawings on the floor... you should warn a person about those,” the pirate continues.

“Let him be,” Fenris says gruffly from right beside him, and Anders freezes mid-step. Ahead, Hawke and Isabela stop and turn around to look at him, disbelief clearly written on their features. 

When Fenris merely rolls his eyes and shoves past them with an irritated grumble low in his throat, Anders follows closely behind him and tries not to grin.

“Thank you,” he says once he’s sure the others are out of earshot.

“For what?” Fenris doesn’t look at him.

“You defended me just then,” Anders says, and the elf glances at him quickly before looking away again.

“Those glyphs can be useful.”

Anders laughs. “Did I just hear you call my magic _useful_?”

Fenris sighs. “I never denied that magic has its uses.”

“Well no," Anders replies, smiling, "but you’ve never come right out and sa--”

“I do not wish to argue about this now,” Fenris cuts him off.

“Right, I forgot that we’re not talking today,” Anders replies without thinking, avoiding the curious look he gets in response.

“Is there something you wished to discuss?” Fenris asks after a moment, turning to meet his eyes with a careful stare.

Anders blinks, not knowing what to say. “You sharpened my staff for me.” _Right, very smooth._

Fenris raises a single brow. “I finished the job we started. What of it?”

“Nothing. It was just... unexpected, that’s all.” Anders wills himself to stay calm under the elf’s scrupulous gaze.

“You ran off to bathe before it was done,” Fenris says, tone dismissive.

“I didn’t _run_ anywhere,” Anders starts defensively, and then interrupts himself just as quickly. “Wait a minute. How did you know where I went? You were off walking somewhere.”

“Hawke told me,” Fenris answers quickly, beginning a thorough examination of his own gauntlets. “I returned to camp before you did.”

Anders narrows his eyes. “No you didn’t.”

“I came back and went straight to sleep,” The elf insists.

“That’s not what Isabela said,” Anders presses, not letting the subject go.

“You would take her word over mine?” Fenris asks, the expression on his face carefully neutral.

“That’s not fair,” Anders says, and stops walking. After a moment, he adds, “Why are you lying about this?”

Fenris stops a few feet ahead of him and sighs, defeated. “Fine,” he admits, sounding annoyed. “I saw you.”

“Where?” Anders asks.

“On the beach.” Fenris still doesn’t turn around.

“Let me get this straight," Anders says, irritated. "You're off wandering by yourself when you see me - alone, undressing on the beach - and you couldn’t be bothered to say anything?”

“Keep your voice down,” Fenris hisses, turning and closing the space between them in a few quick strides. He leans in and speaks quietly, dark skin visibly flushed even in the dimness. “What would you have had me say, exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the mage snaps back, ignoring Fenris’s proximity and the heat pouring off of his body. “‘Hello Anders! Lovely evening, isn’t it? Sorry for interrupting the fifteen minutes of privacy you get in a day! By the way, don’t take your clothes off just yet because I’m _right fucking here_ ’?”

“It was far too late for that,” Fenris whispers into the shell of his ear, and Anders shivers.

“...What?” He squeaks dumbly.

Fenris pulls back slightly, just far enough that Anders has nowhere to look but straight into mossy green eyes. The other man’s pupils are blown wide in the dark, his breath hot, and when he speaks again the mage swears he can feel the vibration of the words. “You heard what I said, Anders.”

For a moment Fenris lingers right there, eyes dropping to Anders’s lips when his tongue darts out to wet them. “How much did you see?” The mage whispers, transfixed.

The sound of heavy footfalls approaching from ahead pulls both of them from their trance, and for a split second before Fenris turns and flashes brightly with lyrium, Anders swears he sees disappointment cross his face.


	26. Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The mage’s eyes glow with a familiar but eerie light, a pallid blue that doesn’t belong on this side of the Veil, doesn’t belong in this rocky clearing within the caves, and certainly doesn’t belong in the eyes of a guileless healer who squats with the refugees in the sewers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm sorry this is late! Concentration can be difficult when your brain doesn't behave as it should. =/
> 
> Thank you all so, SO much for reading!

_Not enough,_ Fenris thinks as he cuts through the first Tal-Vashoth that comes at him, tempered steel slicing cleanly through flesh and then bone, no armor to impede the progress of its sharpened edge. Had those really been the words on his tongue?

 _How much did you see?_ The mage had asked.

Another body lunges from the left and he barely ducks in time, the broad blade of an axe displacing the air above him with an audible _whoosh_. Fenris turns and swings with the full weight of his weapon, striking his attacker’s legs with the blunt side of his blade while he struggles for proper footing. Another swing cleaves neatly through the war-painted skin of a broad shoulder. The second body falls.

 _Not enough._ But that’s not true, is it? If anything, Fenris knows too much about the mage - understands too much, cares too much.

Feels too much.

A blast of heat strikes from behind and Fenris turns to see Anders calling flame from the air, igniting the ether with a spark from somewhere within himself. _That’s not Anders,_ Fenris’s mind reminds him, a single clear thought in a haze of adrenaline and frustration. The mage’s eyes glow with a familiar but eerie light, a pallid blue that doesn’t belong on this side of the Veil, doesn’t belong in this rocky clearing within the caves, and certainly doesn’t belong in the eyes of a guileless healer who squats with the refugees in the sewers.

Fenris looks down at his own hands and grimaces when he’s met with the same sickening glow. What does that say about him, exactly?

“Fenris!” Hawke bellows from behind, snapping the elf back to reality without enough time to fully evade the flames coming from the opposite direction. He dodges too late. The flesh of his upper arm heats, tightens, blisters, _burns,_ and he growls at the pain, gripping his sword tighter. _Use it as fuel._ Fenris runs straight at the source of the enemy’s spell, lurching forward and threatening to trip over his own feet, anger alone keeping him upright.

“Saarebas!” The warning comes from Anders’s mouth but the voice isn’t his, not entirely. Fenris hears it instead as a curse - _dangerous thing, mage_ \- and when the edge of his blade connects with the collared creature’s armored waist, the force of the blow alone is enough to sunder the metal. The _thing_ doesn’t fight back, falling instead to its knees with a vacant groan of pain. Before Fenris can speculate on the lack of reaction, Isabela materializes briefly and slits the giant’s throat from behind, flashing a cheeky grin and winking before dissolving once more into a cloud of carefully-timed smoke.

Forcing himself to focus, Fenris surveys his surroundings: four enemies to his right, two ahead, a straggler to his left that Isabela will pick off easily enough. He heads for the largest group, willing energy into his brands and wincing at the sensation, instantly livid with memories of the ritual that created them. The giants turn dead eyes toward him but their reaction is too slow; Fenris thrusts his pain outward, literally pulses with rage, and the Tal-Vashoth stumble back, stunned.

“Hold them down!” The demon calls from Anders’s mouth, and Hawke raises his arms in a practiced movement, holding the bodies momentarily aloft before pounding them harshly to the ground with palpable force. Lightning sparks in the air above and the hair on the back of Fenris’s neck stands on end with the static. The Tal-Vashoth writhe and then grow still, lifeless.

“Thralls,” Fenris calls aloud, “Again. All of them.”

“Blood magic,” Justice spits, and the elf scoffs, turning again to appraise the situation. Isabela stands over two frozen bodies, patting them down with an unlikely sort of care, hoping for loot. Behind her, the straggler lies in a pool of his own spreading blood.

“These were like the others, then?” Hawke asks, looking first to Fenris and then back to Anders. The Fade has vanished from the mage’s eyes, their colour returned to his usual warm honey brown. _For now,_ the elf’s mind supplies unhelpfully.

“I think so,” Anders answers absently, moving to examine the heat-damaged flesh of Fenris’s arm. “Does anyone else need healing?” He asks, almost as an afterthought.

“Leave it,” Fenris hisses, jerking his arm away and grimacing at the pain brought on by the action. “I will bandage it.”

“I could have the wound closed in just a few minutes,” Anders suggests, frowning. “Burns are painful. Let me heal you." He reaches for the injured arm again, magic gathering in his hands and pulling on hypersensitive lyrium markings even without contact.

“Do not _touch_ me,” Fenris warns, voice low but no less vicious for its hush, and Anders gives him a long, injured look before finally raising his hands in surrender and turning away.

 

***

 

“They’d better have left more than a bloody map this time,” Anders curses under his breath, words bouncing emptily off the walls of the secluded alcove. After the battle, he’d only stayed with the others long enough to locate another collection of blood-filled vials used for blood control. Once they were destroyed and he was sufficiently blood-spattered he’d wandered off, not particularly eager for camaraderie or conversation.

Fenris refusing to accept healing was one thing - and a hurtful thing, if he was being honest with himself - but had he really expected a different reaction from him? The two of them were getting along better, sure, but it’s not as if a slight increase in tolerance and a few awkward, quasi-flirtatious moments signified a total change in a person.

_Were they flirtatious?_

Fenris is stubborn enough when it comes to accepting aid even without the added complication of magic, a fact that Anders simply has to accept and try not to take personally.

Not that it matters what the elf thinks of him.

He could have shrugged the whole thing off, perhaps, had he not turned at that moment to find himself fixed with not one, but _two_ sympathetic looks from meddling friends, Hawke and Isabela apparently still intent upon concerning themselves with his personal affairs.

 _Personal affairs?_ He wonders, kicking open a small chest with the scuffed toe of his boot. _When was the last time I considered anything even remotely close to personal? There is no personal anymore._ Squatting down on stiff knees, Anders begins digging through a seemingly random collection of clutter, shoving aside a few rusted knives, some empty bottles, and a bundle of dried mushrooms whose colouring he vaguely recognizes from his time in Amaranthine. He's about to close the chest and make his way back to the others when his fingers graze a thin, exquisitely bound journal resting against the splintered wood of the bottom. In the lower right-hand corner of the cover, a symbol is carefully embossed. Anders feels his blood surge at the mere sight of it.

"Templars," he spits, and the voice that echoes back to him in the gloom is only half his own. No longer caring about the state of his coat, the mage lowers himself to sit on the dirt floor and flips open the front cover, resisting the childish urge to simply tear the thing in half. Or light it on fire.

The first few pages are innocuous enough as far as templar proselytizing is concerned: a carefully penned collection of the owner's favourite canticles from the Chant of Light, a factually scant and self-righteous personal essay on the "dangers of magic" and the importance of the Order in keeping it contained, a list of initial impressions of the newest recruits. Each entry is signed with a single letter C, left undated.

“Anything interesting?” Hawke asks out of nowhere from the narrow entry to the alcove, and Anders doesn’t jump so much as he _surges,_ vision clouding momentarily and skin tingling with Justice’s disquiet. He shakes his head and then sighs, irritated, closing the journal and tucking it deftly inside his coat before the other man has a chance to see it. If there’s any chance it contains information that could help with the mage underground, it’s worth protecting.

“I told you not to sneak up on me like that,” he says, more anger seeping into his voice than he intends.

“Easy,” Hawke responds, and Anders doesn’t doubt for a moment that his patronizing tone is intentional. “We found something you might want to see.”

 

***

 

“You really don’t recognize any of these?” Isabela asks, leaning over a small table and leafing through a series of roughly-stacked pages.

“No,” Fenris answers, mostly disinterested. He clenches his jaw and makes one last gentle pass around his upper arm with the bandage, wincing when the cloth makes contact with raw skin.

“But they’re Tevinter symbols, aren’t they? You’re from Tevinter,” Isabela presses, and from anyone else the redundancy of that statement alone would be enough to stop Fenris from responding. The woman possesses a particular kind of warmth, however, and he can’t quite help himself.

“Is that what I said?” He asks, tucking in the loose end of the fabric and moving his arm experimentally. “That’s just something I say at parties in order to seem dark and enigmatic.”

Isabela turns and runs her eyes ostensibly over his body, a smirk shaping her lips. “Mmm,” she hums, and sits down beside him. “It works for you.”

Fenris chuckles. “If they’re Tevinter they have something to do with magic, no doubt. You’d be better off asking the mage.”

“Hawke said he doesn’t know anything about them,” Isabela says, and Fenris shakes his head.

“Not Hawke. The other mage. The foolish one.”

Isabela smiles a little too brightly at him. “You know, you’re right! This would have been _much_ more fun if we’d brought Merrill along.”

“You are mocking me,” Fenris states, rather than asking.

“Only a little,” the pirate quips, standing once more and sauntering back to the pile of junk on the table. “Why not let _Anders_ heal you?” She asks once her back is turned.

“Why question others’ personal choices?” Fenris asks, suspicious.

“Oooh, he’s _touchy,_ ” Isabela teases.

“Only after dark and behind closed doors,” Hawke announces, stepping into the clearing with what _he_ would no doubt consider impeccable timing. Anders follows behind him, looking cross.

 _With me?_ Fenris wonders before he can stop himself, ignoring Hawke’s inappropriate comment altogether. He goes back to fussing with the wrapping on his arm, hoping to avoid a conversation he really doesn’t wish to have right now. Or ever.

_How much did you see?_

“All right, what am I looking at?” Anders asks, sounding annoyed. To Fenris’s relief, he doesn’t so much as glance in his direction.

“We were hoping you could tell us, actually,” Hawke responds, tilting his head in the direction of the table. “I don’t suppose you recognize any of those symbols?”

Anders steps forward and looks over the objects laid out on the tabletop. He frowns, an expression that adds several years to his face, and Fenris finds himself frowning in turn at that thought. Pale, careful fingers flip delicately through loose pieces of parchment while the mage’s other hand clasps the hard line of his jaw, calloused skin brushing over at least three days’ worth of stubble. Fenris refuses to think about how it would feel under his own fingertips.

“They’re definitely Tevinter,” the mage starts, though he sounds hesitant. “Runic symbols, I think. I had a friend with the Wardens who had a similar set of tracings she used for crafting. Did you find any other supplies with them?”

“You’re assuming we know what runecrafting supplies look like,” Hawke says, then purses his lips in thought. “I think there was a chest of drawers in the room with all the blood... vial.. things. We could go back and che--”

“Blank runestones?” Fenris asks, immediately cursing himself for doing so. He can feel Anders’s eyes on him, quickly scanning his arm before focusing on his face, ever the healer. Ignoring the blush he can feel rising in his cheeks, the elf continues. “I... there was a sack of small stones in a chest not far back. A vial of liquid too, if I recall correctly.”

“Any lyrium?” Anders asks.

“I picked up some dust earlier,” Hawke supplies. “Was going to give it to Sandal, actually.”

“So they were... making runes for enchanting?” Isabela asks, voice skeptical. “Those big horned things?”

“More likely the mages controlling them,” Fenris volunteers.

“ _Blood_ mages,” Anders corrects sharply, not leaving enough time for a response. “Except that runecrafting isn’t the same as enchanting. Enchantment takes training. The only people I’ve known who could do it were either circle trained or from Orzammar.”

“Or tranquil,” Hawke suggests, and Fenris catches Anders’s eyes as they narrow.

“Didn’t Varric tell you a tranquil mage had gone missing?” The elf asks.

“We have to go talk to him,” Anders mutters in response, quickly shoving the tracings into his pack and starting for the exit.


	27. Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris’s lips part in the anticipation of speech but the only thing that leaves his mouth is his tongue, swiping quickly across his lower lip before retreating once more in silence. Anders waits, feeling inexplicably nervous under the other man’s gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A timely update? Thank the Maker!
> 
> I love all of you so, so much. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading!

Anders shifts positions yet again, stretching his legs out on the rock in front of him, frowning when his knee pops in an audible protest. The embers in the fire pit fade to a dull glow that mirrors the last of the light in the sky, and if Hawke and Isabela would stop their cackling, the moment might actually be peaceful. Why they bothered setting up a tent in perfectly clear weather, Anders doesn’t know. Why they’re sharing it, he doesn’t _want_ to. What he really wants right now is some solitude.

Perhaps he should have taken second watch instead.

Thumbing the pilfered journal stuffed inside his coat, he hazards a glance in Fenris’s direction. In slumber, the elf’s face is uncharacteristically serene. Anders catches himself smiling faintly despite his frustration with the man, wishing the stubborn bastard could find a reason to wear the expression consciously. When he’d turned in early, Anders tried not to show any concern. Something had to be bothering Fenris, though - he never slept more than he absolutely had to.

Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, Anders lights a small lantern, curses the extraneous heat it produces, and opens the book. Knowing there won’t be much time before Hawke comes to relieve him of his post, he scans the pages quickly and hopes for something to stand out amongst the hastily-scribbled words. If the templar who owned this journal had anything to do with the missing mages, it could contain something that might help track them down. 

Most of the entries are nothing more than rambling, the self-entitled diatribe of a person clearly born into privilege. If Anders had to venture a guess, they were likely written by someone native to the Free Marches. A small, wistful part of him feels nostalgic at the casual mention of harrowings, of ‘tawdry affairs’ amongst the apprentices and the templars’ efforts to impede them. That nostalgia is quickly drowned out by anger, however, by the injustice of innocent people being robbed of their youth for no legitimate reason.

Anders remembers his own tawdry affairs. Stolen glances, hushed words, heated bodies, all given freely because what else did they have left of themselves to give? Nothing of worth from their lives outside the tower, surely. Nothing of the home or the family from which they’d been snatched like the prey of some hulking, gluttonous beast. The templars took anything they could get their greedy hands on - in the name of _safety,_ of _protection_ \- without a second thought or any care for consent. They took away individual identities and stamped decent people with a harmful label they could never hope to escape.

And then they took away what little joy the mages managed to find in one another.

Anders closes his eyes, swallows hard, and tries to focus on the task at hand. He wills away the image of a familiar face in his mind and hates himself for doing so, wishing more than anything that he could look back on his own memories with fondness instead of vitriol. He doesn’t want to forget striking blue-grey eyes or perpetually greying hair - would love to fall asleep yearning for the sensation of warm skin, a rough beard, and the hungry touch of someone who felt the same, who understood. Someone like him, with nothing left to lose and everything to give. Turning the page, Anders blinks away the wetness in his eyes and forces them to focus. Now is not the time to grieve.

Page after page, he finds only more reminders of why he hates the Circle, why it needs to be abolished. Clenching his jaw and gripping the book tightly, he takes in one word at a time, unable to hold onto meaning through the haze of rage that threatens to overtake him.

A short entry three-quarters of the way through the journal clears the mental fog all at once, stops his heart, and sends it lurching upward to sit in his throat.

_Alrik says the new transfer asks too many questions. Thekla gets the brand tomorrow._

Anders marks the page with his finger and slowly closes the front cover, unwilling to believe his eyes. “Karl,” he hears himself murmur, then blinks deliberately once, twice, and looks out at the still, black surface of the Waking Sea. Taking a deep breath and holding it in his lungs, he opens the journal and re-reads the only line on the page.

It reads the same. _Thekla gets the brand._

For a moment, Anders doesn’t react. He sits and stares at the words, mentally dissecting each one until they become nothing more than a series of loops and curves on parchment, an innocuous collection of shapes and lines with no discernible meaning. Mind blank, he closes the journal and grasps it tightly in his right hand before hurling it through the air to land with a muffled _thud_ somewhere beyond Hawke’s tent.

“Poor ending?” Fenris asks from his bedroll, voice low, likely in consideration of the others. _Or maybe he didn’t want to startle me,_ Anders thinks, and immediately dismisses the thought once he remembers how little Fenris cares for him.

“How long have you been awake?” The mage asks, trying to keep his tone even. Fenris stands, stretching upward and then wincing sharply before glaring at his own arm.

Anders watches him but says nothing, waiting for an answer. When the elf simply walks over and silently takes a seat a few feet away, he sighs. “Well?” He asks expectantly.

“Not long,” Fenris replies, and then shivers.

“You can’t tell me you’re actually _cold_ right now,” Anders says, looking at the other man in disbelief. “It’s bloody hot out here, even without the sun. I get that you’re from Tevinter but you’re not inhuman." He blinks. “In...elven. You know what I mean. ”

Fenris huffs and crosses his arms, curling in on himself. “My humanity is debatable.”

_That makes two of us,_ Anders thinks but doesn’t say. For a moment, both of them are silent. When Fenris pulls his legs up on the rock and hugs them tightly to his chest, the mage frowns. “You’re actually cold.”

Fenris looks at him and raises a skeptical eyebrow. “What would I gain from lying about that?”

Anders laughs grimly. “I stopped questioning your motives a long time ago.”

The elf nods, looks down at the sand, says nothing.

“...You didn’t bring a blanket?” The mage asks.

Fenris shakes his head and smiles wryly. “I hadn’t anticipated the need for one.”

Anders doesn’t respond, instead looks down at his own chest and sighs faintly. With anyone else, this would be simple. Unpredictable, hard to read at the best of times, and a near-constant source of frustration, Anders doesn’t have the slightest clue how to even _start_ with Fenris. In an action he hopes he won’t come to regret, he begins unfastening the buckles of his coat one by one. Hopping off the rock and pulling his arms free of the sleeves, he offers it to the other man.

Fenris accepts it, looking reluctant.

_He’s worse than I thought,_ Anders thinks, burgeoning worry tempered somewhat by the sight of the elf curling tightly into his favoured feathered pauldrons and proceeding to glare at nothing in particular. He stifles an unwelcome giggle. “You can relax, you know. It’s not going to eat you.”

“Funny,” Fenris says flatly.

Anders steels himself and pushes on, concerned. “How’s your arm?”

“Burnt,” the elf replies without looking at him.

“Funny.” Anders huffs. “Do you mind if I have a look at it?”

Fenris narrows his eyes, somehow managing to look intimidating even surrounded by feathers. “To what end?”

“Clearly I was hoping to spit in it and then rub it down with salt,” the mage says snidely. The other man shoots him a callous glance.

Letting out a long breath of air, Anders tries again. “Look, I don’t know what I did to make you this hostile again and to be honest, I’m almost at the point where I don’t care anymore. But it’s the middle of summer and while the rest of us are sweating, you’re cold enough that you’ve agreed to put on _my_ coat. You’re even quieter than usual, you went to sleep early - which I have never seen you do - and I can feel the heat coming off you in waves. You have a flesh wound you refuse to let me treat that’s probably infected - you’re obviously running a fever - and you came to sit with me, which I highly doubt is something you’re doing just because you happen to enjoy company. Are you planning to wait until this gets even worse, or can you put your disgust with me aside for ten minutes so I can take care of it now?”

Fenris simply stares coldly at him for a few seconds before averting his eyes and gingerly removing his arm from the sleeve of the oversized coat. Exhaling heavily, he moves closer so that Anders can have a better look. “Fine.”

“Thank you so much for your permission,” the mage snaps, words harsh in juxtaposition to the care with which he slowly unravels the bandage. The wound exposed, his tone softens automatically. “It’s not as bad as it could be, but it’s hardly great, either.” Anders sighs. “If I heal the skin and the tissue underneath, it’ll stop the infection from getting worse. You’ll have a better chance of killing it off quickly on your own. Will you let me do that much?”

Fenris speaks to his knees instead of the mage himself. “Do what you think is best.”

“I don’t suppose hitting you upside the head and telling you to stop being so bloody stubborn would help at this point?”

“You certainly wouldn’t be the first to try,” the elf admits with a bitter smile, and Anders winces at the implication.

“I didn’t mean --”

Fenris chuckles darkly. “I know.” He tilts his head to indicate his injured arm. “Do what you must.”

Reaching for the Fade, Anders wills energy outward to pool in the palms of his hands, the lyrium in Fenris’s flesh already pulling like a magnet. When the elf nods his consent and then looks away, Anders raises his hands to hover just over broken skin. Closing his eyes and letting loose a familiar warmth from his fingertips, he focuses on steadying the flow of magic as it’s syphoned from him. When Fenris tenses and holds his breath like usual, the mage tries to ignore his reaction.

Even the smallest amount of healing magic cast upon the elf steals the breath straight from Anders’s lungs. The pull on his mana is heady, intoxicating, and he has to will his eyes to stay open in order to remain focused, to stop himself from getting lost in the sensation. Every nerve in his body revels, pulses along with the beating of his heart and the rhythmic breaths in and out of his lungs. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end and he suppresses a shiver, intensely aware of every inch of his skin and the clothing that touches it.

Fenris’s body doesn’t heal like any other that Anders has ever put his hands on, either the lyrium or the man himself changing the behaviour of his mana, pulling the energy from him and _using it_ to heal itself rather than allowing the mage to put forth the effort. At first he’d thought it was an effect of the lyrium, Fenris’s flesh imbued with the essence of magic and fully aware of how to channel it where it’s most needed; now Anders is willing to believe that it has just as much to do with the elf’s stubborn sense of self-preservation as anything else.

Once the skin is closed and the underlying tissue repaired, Anders sits back and attempts to catch his breath. Beside him, Fenris tests the mobility of his arm. Apparently satisfied, he grumbles an uneasy “thank you” without even turning around.

“Is it really that bad?” Anders asks before he can stop the words from escaping, voice coming a little breathlessly. “When I heal you, I mean. You’d rather walk around with a serious injury than let me put my hands on you even for a minute. Does it hurt? Do I hurt you?”

Fenris turns and looks him straight in the face, heated green eyes shining dangerously in the low light of the lantern. For a brief, panic-stricken moment, Anders worries that the elf is about to hit him. Fenris’s lips part in the anticipation of speech but the only thing that leaves his mouth is his tongue, swiping quickly across his lower lip before retreating once more in silence. Anders waits, feeling inexplicably nervous under the other man’s gaze.

Fenris shakes his head, a movement so slight that the mage thinks he may have imagined it until the elf adds a gentle “no.”

“What is it, then?” Anders asks, realizing he cares to know the answer more than he’d like to admit. “Why wouldn’t you let me heal you earlier?”

Fenris looks down and considers his own hands, a faint crease forming between his brows. After a moment, his eyes come back up to meet the mage’s once more with an expression something like pleading. “I did not want the others to see.”

Anders closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, livid. He forces himself to take a careful breath in, out, and then stands, moving as calmly as he can manage. When he speaks, his voice is cold, detached. “If you’re too bloody proud to accept help from someone as _despicable_ as me, that’s fine. You can bleed to death next time, for all I care.”

Before he can walk away, Fenris's hand closes firmly around his forearm. “That’s not what I meant,” the elf begins, standing but not letting go even when Anders stops pulling in the other direction. “You don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand, Fenris? That the only time you bother to treat me like a human being is when you need something from me? That I’m nothing but a monster to you otherwise? Because I think you’ve made that much abundantly clear.”

Fenris’s hand tightens on his arm. “That’s not --”

“What is it you want from me, exactly?” Anders snaps, pulling out of his grip. Fenris lets go but doesn’t move away, standing just a little too close and looking up at him with indecisive viridian eyes. “One minute you act like you hate me and the next, you’re... holding me here and _looking_ at me like that and I-- What do you expect me to do?”

The elf shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking distraught enough that Anders nearly expects him to turn and run. “I can’t...” He starts, expression shifting from doubt to frustration in a matter of seconds. “I’m no good at--” Shaking his head, he growls irritably in the back of his throat before reaching up to touch too-warm fingers to the side of the mage’s neck.

Anders sucks in a shaky breath. “Fenris, what are you--”

The elf doesn’t let him finish, closing the short distance between them and pressing his lips to Anders’s almost chastely, unexpectedly gentle. He pulls away just as quickly as he leaned in, fingers still resting on the pale, sensitive skin just below the mage’s ear. “I do not think you a monster, Anders. I only wish I could say the same for myself.”

Pulling his arms deftly from the borrowed coat, he lays it down on the rock behind him and walks away, turning down the darkened path to the beach.

Anders stands silently with his feet anchored to the spot for what feels like several minutes before footfalls come up behind him and a large hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Hawke’s voice is hushed but it rings loudly in his ears all the same.

“If you don’t follow him, Anders, I will. And _I'm_ not the one he wants.”


	28. Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re still shivering, Fenris. Take the bloody coat or I’ll put it on you myself.” He steps forward as if he actually means to do it, the frown on his lips draining light from amber eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for your comments, kudos, page views, and just general support! The fact that I just broke 200 kudos literally blows my mind. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!
> 
> This chapter is NSFW (fiiiiinally) and includes thinly-veiled references to previous occurrences of non-con.

The sand on the beach is cold and damp, a fitting reflection of the way Fenris feels, and with each step he takes it yields softly under his weight. He shivers slightly as he walks, chilled by the modest breeze that brushes the coast. Fists clenched at his sides, he considers his actions.

He’d kissed the mage.

It was innocent, a simple pressing of his lips to Anders’s, or at least more innocent than anything else Fenris is accustomed to doing in the company of a single mage - a fact that speaks volumes about his lack of integrity. He saw himself lean in to kiss the other man rather than felt it, his body acting of its own accord, seemingly against his stilted thoughts.

A flimsy excuse, if one could even call it that.

Bending to pick up a flattened stone from the sand, he runs the callused pad of his thumb over its wave-worn face. He turns to the sea and throws it carefully, parallel to the surface of the water. When it skips once, twice, and then sinks with a satisfying _plunk_ , he sighs.

Except for his one ill-conceived evening with Hawke, Fenris has remained alone since he gained his freedom, perennially envious of the ease with which others interact and share affection. Trust, camaraderie, and touch appear to come naturally even to the few children he’s observed, and yet the most basic kindness shown to him leaves him uncomfortable, unsure how to react. The realization is just another harsh reminder of his ineptitudes.

For one reason or another, Anders has persisted in his interaction with Fenris, either oblivious to or not bothered by the bitterness and anger he’s received in return. Initially the elf had thought the mage’s interest in him was purely for the sake of his misguided _cause,_ that he kept communication so that he had someone with whom to test his arguments. After a time, the conversation had grown lighter. After a confusing night with Hawke, it took a turn for the personal. The man’s persistence was almost as impressive as it was confusing.

Fenris shivers once more and grasps the bare skin of his own arms, cursing himself for removing his leathers before going to sleep, his usual sleeveless tunic providing nothing in the way of warmth. When his thoughts drift aimlessly back to patchwork and feathered pauldrons, he scowls. Fenris swears he can still smell the mage on him: the warmth of ginger, cooling effect of elfroot, and something else familiar that he can’t quite identify... something beneath it all that’s earthy and inherently _Anders;_ something he can really only describe it as comforting, loathe as he is to admit it.

Fenris is also loathe to admit that the man’s presence does bring him a certain feeling of reassurance: the nearness of a healer, a patient kind of support, and... a friend. He wonders exactly when it was that friendship had come to replace annoyance - somewhere between threats on the mage’s life and a newfound, imprudent desire for contact.

When a quiet rustling comes behind him, Fenris turns with a start, caught off-guard.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Anders says from several feet behind him, standing with his coat draped over one arm. “Sorry.”

Fenris turns and looks at him, trying to keep his expression neutral. Part of him wants to command the mage to leave and never bother him again, tell him that he’s caused more than enough indecision. Another part - the part of him not ruled by hostility and pain - is less decided but somehow just as insistent. He settles on silence.

“Will you take my coat again?” The mage asks, but Fenris shakes his head.

“I am fine,” he says, not feeling or sounding fine at all, and wonders why he’s lying only after the words have left his mouth.

Recognizing the lie for what it is, Anders persists. “You’re still shivering, Fenris. Take the bloody coat or I’ll put it on you myself.” He steps forward as if he actually means to do it, the frown on his lips draining light from amber eyes. He looks tired.

When Fenris still doesn’t move, instead just stands there not knowing how to broach the subject he knows is at the forefront of both their minds, Anders huffs. Shaking his head, he lowers himself down to sit on the edge of an outcropping of rock. Fenris watches for a moment before joining him and looking out at the sea.

“Did you just kiss me?” Anders asks, sounding suspect, and awaits a response.

Fenris takes in a constrained breath and picks up a handful of sand, allowing it to drain slowly through his fingers. Knowing there’s no hope of convincing the mage to drop the subject, he speaks an answer quietly to his own buried feet. “Do you wish for me to deny it?”

“No,” Anders says immediately, as if the response is absurd. “Though I’d like to know why.”

Fenris glances silently at him out of the corner of his eye, an action Anders apparently takes as an invitation. Seating himself closely behind Fenris, he extends a long leg on either side of him and wraps his coat as snugly as he can around them both. When he presses his chest to Fenris’s back, the elf tenses in response to their closeness.

“...Is this okay?” The mage asks quietly, words carrying an underlying pity Fenris doesn’t wish to acknowledge.

“You needn’t coddle me,” he hisses, forcefully willing himself to relax against the solid body behind him. He can cleave a man in two, but sitting with one is something else entirely - a thought that strikes him as ludicrous. Not that a little heat wouldn’t be appreciated.

Anders makes a chiding _tsk_ sound with his tongue. “This isn’t coddling.” Tentatively, he wraps his right arm around Fenris’s midsection and is granted a stiffening of the elf’s spine as a result. “Are you always this touchy?”

“I would imagine so,” the elf grumbles, unsure what to make of the question and fumbling for something to do with his hands. He grabs for the ridiculous pauldrons and pulls the coat forward around their huddled shoulders. The soothing aura of Anders’s magic is steady, reassuring, but Fenris still feels on edge. “What is it that you’re doing, exactly?” He asks uneasily.

Anders makes no effort to hide the annoyance in his tone. “I’m keeping you warm.”

“The coat alone would be insufficient?” Fenris asks, unsure whether or not he’s joking.

Anders appears to hold his tongue. “Look, if you want me to go, just--” Fenris cuts him off by closing his fingers around the hand at his waist and squeezing gently, hoping the action makes up for the word he can’t bring himself to say. The mage shifts slightly, pressing even closer to rest his chin on Fenris’s shoulder, effectively silenced. Hesitantly, the elf leans back into him. It occurs to him that it’s been years since he’s had this kind of contact, not that he thinks pleasantly of it anymore. He forces the thought from his mind.

“How long will the fever last?” He asks, hoping to avoid answering more questions.

“It should break shortly now that the wound is healed,” Anders says, his mouth not far from Fenris’s ear, breath ghosting the skin of his neck. “Can I ask you something?”

“If I say no?” Fenris tries. _So much for that._

“Are you ashamed to let me heal you?” Anders asks, ignoring the response altogether. “You said you didn’t want the others to see.”

Fenris shakes his head and breathes a small sigh of relief. If the mage is going to push a subject, at least it’s not his earlier lapse in judgment. “It’s not that.” He clears his throat, unsure how to phrase what he means to say. “Your magic, it... is not unpleasant.”

“Well I would hope no--”

“Mage,” Fenris warns, not fond of being interrupted. If they’re going to broach this subject, it’s going to be by his terms. The other man sighs into his neck and he’s forced to suppress a shiver, no longer able to shrug it off as an effect of the fever.

“Am I really still just ‘Mage’ to you?” Anders asks quietly. “You did kiss me just a few minutes ago.”

Fenris feels a blush rise in his cheeks and extend to the tips of his ears. “You _are_ a mage.” He counters lamely. “Anders.”

Instead of acknowledging his response, Anders presses his lips briefly to the side of Fenris’s neck, forcing him to take in a shaky breath. He chuckles lowly. “So,” he ponders aloud, lips barely brushing the sensitive skin below Fenris’s ear. “Not unpleasant?”

Fenris wills himself to keep a steady pattern of breathing when Anders wraps his other arm around his waist, effectively embracing him. “Pleasant,” he concedes, vaguely annoyed by his breathless tone.

Anders kisses his neck once more, Fenris automatically tilting his head away to allow him access. “How pleasant?” the mage teases, following a fine lyrium line upward with his mouth.

Fenris moans softly in the back of his throat. “You have felt it,” he manages weakly, struggling to find his voice. “It affects you as it does me.” Anders pulls away slightly, a movement that has Fenris’s body leaning of its own volition to follow. 

“No,” Anders says, voice hushed, nearly inaudible.

“No?” Fenris asks, and if not for the dark, honeyed gaze locked on him, he might be worried that the mage intends to leave. 

Anders leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

The last of his resolve shattered, Fenris gives in. In one swift movement, he tosses the coat aside and turns his body to face Anders, nearly lunging at him in his urgency for more contact, more of that smart fucking _mouth_ of his.

Anders doesn’t protest, yielding immediately when Fenris’s tongue parts his lips. A series of whimpers sound in the back of his throat when the elf pushes him down to lie on his back. When Fenris straddles his hips and grinds down, he moans outright.

Feeling Anders’s arousal against his own, Fenris steels his nerves and pulls away for a moment. If he doesn't say it now, he might not have a chance to. Swallowing his pride, he forces himself to speak. “Anders,” he starts, though he doesn’t know why - he has his full attention already. The mage is pouting at the loss of contact beneath him, lips swollen, wet, and tinted a lecherous pink. Pupils blown wide, he watches Fenris speak with a quiet sort of desperation. “If we’re going to do anything, it is to be on my terms. Do you understand?”

Anders nods his head, a guarded expression passing so briefly over his face that Fenris doesn’t even have a chance to identify it. When he doesn’t say anything, the elf presses down against him suddenly. “Tell me,” he growls.

Anders moans again and then swallows, manages to find his words. “Your terms,” he agrees, and bucks his hips.

“Good,” Fenris says, grasping for the hem of Anders’s linen tunic and pulling it up to reveal an expanse of smooth, flat skin. “If I say ‘stop’, we stop. Without question. The same applies to you.”

Anders lifts his shoulders off the ground and pulls the rest of the fabric over his head himself. Raising his hand to run long, steady fingers along the line of the elf’s jaw, he sobers for a moment. “That goes without saying, Fenris. Always.”

Fenris eyes him carefully, taking in the earnest expression on his face before running his hands slowly over the man’s exposed flesh. Anders arches his back and sucks in a sharp breath of air. Golden blond hair dusts the mage’s chest and narrows in a suggestive line down his stomach, darkening at his navel and disappearing beneath the worn laces of his trousers. Fenris memorizes the details with his hands as well as his eyes, savoring the contact.

“Please,” Anders begs from below him, hands resting on Fenris’s hips and pulling fruitlessly in hope of more friction. Fenris undoes the top few toggles of his own tunic and pulls it off, watching as the mage’s eyes wander over his skin. He leans down once more and takes Anders’s mouth with his own, sucking and biting at the man’s lower lip, relishing the heated moans he gets in return. Pressing his weight down firmly and rocking his hips, he feels Anders’s length rub against his own, hard and hot through the thin fabrics of their pants, the friction delicious.

Fenris shifts his attention from Anders’s mouth to the laces of his pants, fumbling blindly to release the knots before giving up with a snarl and sitting up once more. Anders watches intently as the elf forgoes the laces and shoves the fabric down over his hips, freeing his cock to twitch against his stomach in the anticipation of touch.

Smirking, Fenris runs the palm of his hand up Anders’s length, nearly shivering at the provocative sound it elicits. Impatient, he supports his weight on one arm and pushes down the leather of his leggings to pull himself free, cock hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

“Grease,” Fenris demands, grasping one of Anders’s hands and intertwining their fingers. The mage licks his lips, holding eye contact, and then complies, the spark of magic he releases running up Fenris’s arm and causing his whole upper body to tingle. He moans at the insistent feel of it, grateful that it was his hand the mage had targeted and not somewhere else; this could have ended far too quickly.

Reaching between their bodies, Fenris grasps Anders’s cock and squeezes tightly before slicking it completely, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head and run his thumb over the slit. Anders hisses between his teeth and then swears anyway, the word ‘fuck’ leaving his lips as sweetly as any endearment Fenris has ever heard. He hums his approval in the back of his throat and then coats himself quickly with the grease, biting his lip to keep quiet out of instinct. The two of them hard and slick, he lowers himself to kiss Anders again.

Fenris shifts experimentally and the mage moans into his mouth, the sound reverberating through him like a shock. Anders wraps his arms tightly around the elf’s body and pulls him as close as physically possible, whimpers and hot breaths coming rhythmically in his ear. Reaching up to card his fingers through fine blond hair, Fenris begins an unsteady rocking motion.

The sounds coming from Anders’s mouth are too much, too loud, but Fenris can’t bring himself to care enough to silence him, too caught up in the slippery heat between them. Every push of his hips forward, every exquisite slide back, brings him closer to losing control. Anders’s fingernails dig crescent-shaped grooves into his back, pressing deeper into his flesh the faster the two of them rock together, and when Anders cries out one final time, lips brushing the side of Fenris’s neck, the elf follows him over the edge.

For a few moments, the two of them remain in each other’s arms, coming down collectively from their shared euphoric high. When Fenris pulls away to put himself back together, he finds himself chuckling.

Indignantly, Anders questions him. “What are you laughing at?” He asks, pulling a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and beginning to clean himself off.

“I was simply reflecting on your abilities as a healer,” Fenris responds with a smirk. “I’m feeling quite warm now.”


	29. Twenty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Putting on a brave face usually reserved for templars and darkspawn, Anders exits the clinic and locks the doors behind him._
> 
>  
> 
> Gratuitous smut! Coincidentally my longest chapter thus far. I am only mildly ashamed of myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I wanted to give a big big big big big BIG thank you to my lovely friend smokiquartz for being my sounding board this week. Thanks are also owed to my lovely followers on Tumblr for their patience and support. If you're not following me there, please feel free to do so! My username is commandercritical.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart once again for reading and following this story. It means more to me than I can say.

Anders walks toward the clinic door for the third time in the span of five minutes, turns around once again, and shakes his head. He knows a grown man should be able to make a decision, especially one so simple as to whether he should go out or not, but that knowledge doesn’t stop him from hesitating and feeling awkward all the same. It’s not the leaving that unnerves him.

With Hawke and Varric out chasing down leads - Anders left behind in favor of remaining ‘emotionally uninvolved’, or whatever piece of shit explanation Hawke had given - he has little else to do. A normal person would sleep. Anders is not a normal person.

 _Manifesto,_ his mind suggests, a thought that’s not entirely his own but may as well be, and he glances quickly at the pages of unfinished scribbling that line his makeshift desk. There’s no way he’d be able to concentrate enough to get anything useful down anyway.

His last patient left nearly two hours ago. After some time spent rewrapping bandages, several minutes checking his inventory for potions, and a short trip to the Hanged Man to pick up some food Varric had squandered for him, Anders is out of things to do.

 _I should visit Fenris,_ his thoughts had supplied not long after he finished feeding himself, a thought that was most definitely his own if the disquiet it stirred within him was any indication.

And so here he is, standing in the middle of the clinic with his pack in hand, trying to decide whether or not he should go. Would Fenris even want to see him? He’d been amiable enough on the trip home, if not a little reserved. He hadn’t ignored Anders or lashed out at him, either - his usual not-so-subtle method of requesting some distance. He’d even remained calm when he realized that Hawke had puzzled out what happened between the two of them. A silent Hawke was a troubled Hawke, and everyone knew it.

Not that Anders could blame him, exactly; a single evening spent with Fenris and he’s already feeling rather attached himself. Putting on a brave face usually reserved for templars and darkspawn, Anders exits the clinic and locks the doors behind him.

The air in Darktown is heavy, rancid, and thick, and when Anders ascends into Lowtown, it doesn’t improve much. The smell of the quarry is more stagnant than rancid, and in a rare turn of events, the comparative openness of the place only serves to intensify its heat. At least the sunlight has burned off some of the humidity. The market bustles with its usual overflow of swindlers and thieves, and he lets his mind wander away from the crowd to more pleasant things.

The subtle breeze on the beach along the Coast. Flat, sun-baked sheets of rock that seem to radiate warmth from within. A soft press of lips against his own. Finally wrapping his arms around Fenris after resisting the urge so stubbornly so many times before. The way the other man instantly tensed under the physical attention and then relaxed just as quickly, muscles commanded by a stern will. Anders wants Danarius to suffer for that if nothing else, for taking something so simple and gratifying as physical touch and twisting it into some wicked and perverted weapon. For robbing from Fenris the comfort of a reassuring embrace when he can be so open, so vulnerable with the people he trusts.

Anders’s chest warms at that thought, taken with the idea that the harsh, mage-hating elf might actually trust him to some degree. Taking the steps up to Hightown, he pushes the idea to the back of his mind. _Too much, too soon,_ he acknowledges reluctantly; the last thing he wants is to scare the other man away.

 

***

 

When Fenris opens the door to his mansion wearing nothing but a pair of black silk trousers, Anders’s ability to vocalize fails him completely. He finds himself staring at swirls of lyrium on olive skin, trying to keep his mouth from falling unflatteringly open. If the amused huff that escapes the elf’s throat is anything to go by, he’s unsurprised by the reaction.

“I’d been wondering whether you might make an appearance,” Fenris says in his usual deep tremor, leaning against the doorframe. The sight of him topless and at ease is one Anders hasn’t had the time to savour, and so he does now, eyes running oven lean, sculpted flesh to pause on the thin trail of black hair leading down from his navel. Fenris clears his throat, and when Anders finally draws his eyes back up to the elf’s blushing face, he’s met with a shy half-smile and a single raised eyebrow. “You’re staring again.”

“People tend to do that when you put something on display,” Anders manages, feeling juvenile and a little embarrassed, not wanting to show it. “Can I come in, or do you charge admission?”

Instead of responding, Fenris steps out of the way to let him inside, a small smile still playing on his lips. It looks good on him. "If you've no coin, I’m sure we can arrange something."

Anders laughs breathlessly, most of the air escaping his lungs in surprise at the joke and what it insinuates. “Fenris, did you just--”

“You heard me,” he says as he exits the front room and starts up the stairs.

Anders follows, taken aback but hypnotized by the shifting muscles of Fenris’s back as he makes his way up the steps. “You are so bloody beautiful,” the mage says, mostly unaware of the fact that his mouth is spouting words. When Fenris stops for a moment and turns to look at him, questioning, he flushes slightly. “What? As if you don’t know it.”

Fenris shoots him a curious glance and then keeps climbing. “I... thank you,” he says without looking back, and Anders is hit with the realization that he _doesn’t_ know - that no one has ever told him before just how striking he is without having something to gain.

“Fenris?” Anders asks quietly.

“Hm?” The elf responds, still not turning around.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” Fenris answers, making his way to the bed and sitting with his back against the wall, staring blankly ahead. “I don’t--” He starts, then huffs, frustrated. “There is no comfortable for me in... this.” He gestures vaguely at the space between the two of them. “I have never...”

Anders sits next to him and tentatively takes his hand, thrilled all over again when he gives it willingly. The elf’s fingers are warm and rough against his own. “If there’s anything I can do--”

“Don’t,” Fenris says abruptly, then softens his expression. “You are doing enough.” Finally he turns his head and catches Anders’s eyes.

“If I kissed you, would it make you nervous?” Anders asks, already leaning in.

“I am not so easily rattled,” Fenris says to his lips, the tremor in his voice belying the words.

“And what about me? What if I am?” The mage admits.

Fenris catches his gaze again and Anders thinks idly that this is how he likes the other man best, so close that his image is nearly distorted, all parted lips, viridian eyes, and flushed, tanned skin. “You are not.”

“No?” Anders asks, a whisper.

“I would have your mouth,” Fenris replies, nearly as quiet.

Anders concedes.

Fenris kisses eagerly but easily, catching Anders’s bottom lip between his own before exploring it with the tip of his tongue, his efforts surprisingly gentle. His mouth is hot, overheated like the rest of him, and Anders’s body responds right away, moving to straddle his lap. Of their own accord, his hands move to grasp both sides of Fenris’s head, fingers threading through impossibly soft hair, thumbs running up the outer shell of either ear. Fenris moans lowly in the back of his throat. Anders’s blood surges at the sound.

“Sensitive,” Anders mumbles between kisses, running the pads of his thumbs over the tips of pointed, elvhen ears. Fenris grumbles something unintelligible and shakes his head, freeing himself of Anders’s grasp.

“Fool mage,” he growls almost warmly, as if it’s a term of endearment, “Do you think yours are not?”

Before Anders has a chance to comment, Fenris’s hand is on the back of his head, pulling him closer. The elf leans in and takes his earlobe between his teeth, worrying it lightly before breathing a hot breath over the sensitive flesh. Anders shivers, his cock twitching between his legs.

“Remove your clothing,” Fenris purrs right in his ear, close enough that Anders can feel his lips moving with each word. “I wish to feel your skin against mine.”

Anders shimmies back and stands clumsily at the order, taking in Fenris’s self-satisfied smirk and trying not to think about the flushing of his own skin as the elf watches him strip, palming himself through thin, black silk.

“All right, you proved your point,” Anders says defiantly.

“So easily?” Fenris asks with a smirk. “I thought you had more fight in you than that.”

Anders drops his pants and chuckles darkly when the elf’s wide-blown pupils blatantly survey his naked form. “Don’t write me off just yet,” he says, climbing lithely back onto the bed.

Straddling Fenris once more, he grinds down against the obvious bulge beneath him, smiling when he’s rewarded with a satisfied hum. He takes the elf’s mouth again with his own, a desperate mix of lips, breath, and tongue, and when he pulls away, he nips Fenris’s bottom lip between his teeth. “You want my mouth?” He whispers in a pointed ear, pleased with the sharp intake of breath the words elicit. “Where do you want it?”

Fenris tenses and stares up at him from beneath dark lashes, looking pensive. Before he has a chance to voice the words Anders knows are on his tongue, the mage buries his face in his neck, biting down hard. Fenris bucks his hips. “Let me suck your cock,” Anders mouths over reddened flesh. “Please, Fenris? I want to suck your cock.”

Instead of answering, Fenris nods unsteadily, eyes closed and head tilted back against the wall. For a moment, all Anders can do is stare at him, taking in the sight. What he really wants is to make Fenris come undone, to break through his flawless self-control if only for a few seconds.

Snapping himself out of his momentary haze, Anders leans forward once more and presses a chaste kiss to Fenris’s collarbone. He follows the curve of one pectoral muscle down with the flat of his tongue, tasting the salt of the other man’s skin, biting playfully at his nipple. Fenris takes in quick, shallow breaths when Anders traces a lyrium brand down and over his stomach, the line tingling enticingly under his tongue. He can feel taut muscles shifting with his touch, reacting to him as he moves.

Anders moves his hands down to unknot satiny laces, loosening them but leaving black silk to tent over Fenris’s obvious arousal. Hovering close, he looks up to see the other man’s brows knitted, his lower lip pulled inward and held captive by his teeth. Slowly, he lowers his head and breathes hot air over the fabric. When Fenris opens his eyes to hazard a glance downward, Anders takes the silk-sheathed tip into his mouth and teases gently with his tongue. Fenris hums, tensing, and the mage chuckles around him, pressing his tongue flat and noting with a surge of blood to his groin that the fabric is salty, tangy, spotted with wet.

“Anders,” Fenris warns, his voice heated. _Stop teasing._

Anders smiles at him as innocently as possible and then runs his tongue up the underside of his length, base to tip, moistening the silk. Fenris moans in earnest, deep and characteristically menacing, the sound settling right between Anders’s legs. Wanting more contact, he reaches to free Fenris from his trousers, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight of him. 

Fenris’s cock is untouched by the lyrium swirls that paint the rest of his body, purely _him_ and nothing else. It’s thick and hard, the head darkened lecherously with blood, the smallest amount of precum dribbling from the slit. Anders doesn’t waste any time, lapping it up with the tip of his tongue before swirling teasingly around the head, humming his own contentment in the back of his throat. Fenris’s hands find Anders’s leather hair tie, pulling it free and stroking the loose strands with calloused fingers. Taking the head of his cock between his lips and sucking lightly, Anders begins taking the entire length into his mouth, relaxing his throat as he does. Above him, Fenris hisses through his teeth. Anders hums again, pleased at the response. Unable to help himself, he reaches down with a free hand to stroke his own cock. When he moans around Fenris’s shaft, the elf pulls at his hair.

“Anders, if you don’t start moving I am going to do it for you,” he growls.

Taking the threat in good humour, Anders bobs his head tentatively once, twice, before pulling back completely and licking sideways from base to tip once more. He stops to focus on the sensitive spot where the foreskin attaches just under the head, pressing the flat of his tongue against it and turning his head quickly from side to side. Fenris’s legs quiver and his back arches, but he remains silent. Anders squeezes himself tightly with his free hand, urged on by the physical response. Again he takes the full length of Fenris’s cock down his throat, pausing to take in the scent of him; leather, musk, and something vaguely sweet, a type of soap he remembers from somewhere but can’t quite place. Fenris’s fingers tighten in his hair and he moans at the slight pain brought on by the action. Pulling back, he runs his tongue around the ridge of the head a few times before grasping Fenris with his other hand and beginning his ministrations in earnest.

Fenris is quiet, nearly silent except for the sound of his heavy breathing, speeding and getting more shallow as Anders bobs on his cock, meeting his lips with his own fist on every pass. When he summons the smallest amount of grease in his other hand to help himself along, Fenris curses, _venhedis,_ and Anders bucks his hips at the sound, crying out around Fenris’s flesh.

“I am--” Fenris moans aloud, the first sign that he’s not in complete control, and Anders strokes himself frantically in tandem with the movement of his own mouth and hand. “Not going to last at this rate,” he manages.

Anders nods, acknowledging the statement but not caring, caught up in his desire to bring Fenris to the edge and over. He moves faster, teasing expertly with his tongue on each careful pull back, twisting his hand along the thick shaft, stroking himself firmly with his other hand. When Fenris fists his hands in his hair and his legs begin to shake, Anders takes him all the way down again and swallows around him. Finally Fenris’s cock jumps and twitches, spurting hot fluid down the back of Anders’s throat, a guttural sound managing to escape him as it does. Letting go of his control, Anders thrusts hard into his own fist until he’s spilling cum over his hand and onto the bed covers.

After a few moments spent cleaning Fenris with his tongue, Anders straightens again and presses his lips to the side of the elf’s mouth. “I win,” he whispers, looking sly.

Fenris simply chuckles and shoots him a look that would have him instantly hard other under circumstances. When he speaks it’s more of a purr than anything else, “I beg to differ.”

From downstairs comes the unsteady creak of a rotting floorboard.


	30. Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The relief that settles on Anders’s face when Fenris shakes his head is obvious, and he's hit with a surprising pang of sympathy for the mage’s situation. Is it possible that Anders feels just as he does, living on the run, perpetually fearful of being captured and taken back to his own personal version of the Void?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the unexpected hiatus between chapters! My mental health (or lack thereof) got the better of me for a time, but I'm doing better now and am back. I appreciate your patience and again, I'm sorry for the delay.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart (as always) for reading, commenting, viewing, and clicking the kudos button on this story. I've been writing it for a little over a year now and I'm still surprised and tickled every single time someone does. You all make my days so much brighter. Thank you.

Fenris presses a finger to his lips and listens closely, the hair on the back of neck standing on end. He waits for the sound to come again from downstairs. _Danarius’s men? No. Too sloppy._ When nothing but silence comes from the lower floor, he turns his attention back to Anders.

“Did you hear that?” He asks, keeping his voice low, a precaution. Anders nods, looking uneasy. He slips silently off the bed and back into his trousers, not taking the time to bother with his shirt before crossing the room and gripping his staff. Fenris watches as lean muscle shifts lithely under pale skin, unable to draw his eyes away even in the face of potential danger. Shaking his head and cursing himself, he ties the laces of his own trousers and wills the muscles in his legs to function again. Now is not the time. When another creak sounds from downstairs, he catches Anders’s panicked eyes across the room.

“Templars?” The mage mouths at him, and Fenris listens carefully for the sound of metal, of armored boots. _Nothing._ The relief that settles on Anders’s face when he shakes his head is obvious, and Fenris is hit with a surprising pang of sympathy for the mage’s situation. Is it possible that Anders feels just as he does, living on the run, perpetually fearful of being captured and taken back to his own personal version of the Void? The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He doesn’t care to wonder why.

The sound comes again, its source either someone incapable of stealth or someone with little indiscretion, and Fenris stands and retrieves his sword, uncertain which he would prefer. The calling of mana pulls gently from the other side of the room as Anders surrounds himself with a familiar aura of energy, magic shared across the space to tingle through Fenris’s muscles, to enhance his strength. Of course the mage would expend his own energy for someone else’s benefit. Fenris refrains from scoffing.

Anders catches Fenris’s gaze on him and nods his head slowly toward the door. “Go,” he says quietly, eerie blue light flashing briefly in his eyes and dissipating just as quickly. “I’ve got your back.”

Fenris takes in one last steadying breath and moves. At first glance over the balcony’s edge, he sees nothing out of the ordinary. When Anders moves forward and joins him in looking, a small elven woman walks into the main hall. Her steps are comfortable, not those of someone trying to remain inconspicuous at all, and when she speaks to them, her voice is just as steady, just as calm.

“You’re a hard man to find, Anders,” she says deliberately, words underlined with a hint of Dalish inflection. “Mistress told us you’d be in Darktown.”

“I told you he’d be with the elf,” another voice calls from the front hall. A human woman steps into view and pins Fenris with an uncomfortable, knowing look. “Can’t say I blame him. You are rather... distracting.”

Fenris suppresses a shiver, feeling violated, and chances a look at Anders. There is no recognition on his face; he doesn’t know who these people are any more than Fenris does himself. “What do you want with him?” He finds himself calling with a snarl.

The elven woman smiles. “My, my,” she croons, shifting her gaze from Anders to Fenris. “Do they not teach manners in the Imperium? What sort of a greeting is that?”

“Quiet, sister.” The human scolds, fixing cold eyes on Anders. “You’ll frighten them.”

“I _said_ what do you want with him?” Fenris growls again, growing impatient.

“ _We_ don’t want anything,” the elf replies dismissively. Vallaslin twist intricately about her face, dark skin punctuated with darker eyes. “Mistress gets what Mistress wants, however. And She wants him.” She points a finger in Anders’s direction.

“We know your secret,” the other woman starts, and takes a step toward the stairs.

Anders raises his staff. “One more step and it’ll be your last one,” he threatens, voice hard. A chill runs down Fenris’s spine at his words, his barely contained energy. It isn’t an empty threat.

“Come now, we don’t have to fight,” the woman says, grinning almost sweetly. “We’re all on the same side here. You help the mages too, don’t you?”

Anders narrows his eyes. “You and I are nothing alike. From the look of your wrists, you do just as much to keep us imprisoned as the templars.”

Fenris hazards a quick glance. The woman’s skin is littered with visible scars and welts, heavier on one side than the other. Self-inflicted. _Maleficar,_ he thinks, and grips his sword tighter.

“The templars aren’t all so bad,” she counters carefully, staying where she is. “You’d be surprised to know how little it takes to break them.”

“Enough talk,” the elven witch calls, and Fenris sees that her wrists bear the same evidence of ignorance. “Show us the spirit,” she commands, and regards Anders expectantly. “Mistress won’t have you until we’ve seen your power.”

Anders doesn’t so much as flinch. “I don’t understand,” he tries.

“Bullshit you don’t,” the witch spits, unstrapping the staff at her back. “We don’t have to do this the easy way.” She scowls. “They tell us you slipped your collar last time.”

Fenris seethes, not wasting time to weigh his options, igniting his lyrium brands and charging down the stairs where the other woman waits. Her eyes harden as he comes near, lips already mouthing the words of a spell, and when he swings to strike her, the blade of his sword hits only illuminated air and bounces back. Unleashing a growl, he swings again. No use. Behind him, Anders taunts the elven woman with a fireball.

Inside her bubble of protection, the human mage sneers, concentrating on the upkeep. When she reaches for her staff, Fenris swings again for the sake of physical threat alone. “You can’t keep this up for long,” he baits.

“Neither can you, sweetheart,” she refutes with a wink. Bringing the bladed end of her staff to her left wrist, she winces slightly as she pierces the flesh. A memory flashes in Fenris’s mind of Anders sitting closely next to him, reaching over with a file to sharpen his own blade, and he feels a fresh surge of anger. _They will not take him._

The moment the first drop of the woman’s blood hits the floor, her barrier falters. Fenris takes the opportunity, lunging forward with the intent to cleave down hard with his blade. When his movement halts once more mid-swing, his eyes widen. A familiar, sickening sensation crawls just under his skin. Insidious, dark magic takes control of his body, freezing him to the spot. He feels the blood heat in his chest, an unnatural feeling that steals the air from his lungs and radiates outward, searing relentlessly. It takes his core, his limbs, his ability to think, until all that’s left is the sound of Anders cursing and calling his name.

The last thing Fenris sees as he crumples weakly to the ground is a blinding pulse of blue light.

 

***

 

Anders begins the agonizing ascent toward consciousness with the realization that his head is, mercifully, still attached to his body. By the feel of his neck and shoulders, however, it may only be just barely. Unthinking, he wills a pulse of magic to the area, sighing softly when the pain subsides enough for him to relax again.

“Mage!” A voice comes from his left, familiar and harsh, and he frowns, wanting nothing more than to fall back asleep. “Anders, wake up,” it insists, and now there are hands on his shoulders, the touch forceful but still somehow uncertain. Anders shakes his head and makes a pitiful sound of protest. “Fool!” The voice exclaims, and that one word brings reality rushing quickly back.

Fenris. Intruders. Blood magic. _Justice._

Anders opens his eyes to find himself in familiar surroundings, lying stiffly on Fenris’s bed, the elf lowering himself to sit slumped in his favoured armchair not far away. A grimace clouds his expression when he moves.

“You’re hurt,” Anders manages, feeling dizzy and weak but pushing himself to get up anyway. When he sways on his feet with the effort, Fenris scowls at him.

“Lie back down,” he attempts, but Anders is already standing over him, surveying the damage. Gently gripping Fenris’s hand where it cradles his right side, he gives the elf the most reassuring look he can muster. Fenris rolls his eyes but concedes, moving his arm out of the way.

“No flesh wound,” Anders mumbles under his breath, reaching to rest his hand against the skin covering Fenris’s ribcage. “Probably a broken rib. How’s your breathing?”

“It’s _fine,_ ” Fenris says impatiently, obviously in a cheerful mood, and shifts to allow better access to his side. For the sake of self-preservation, Anders hides his smile at the idea that Fenris is getting used to this kind of treatment. “What happened?”

Anders searches his memory, trying to recall any detail. “I remember attacking, and I remember seeing you fall.” He pauses, frowning. “That’s all, though. I think Justice--”

“Your _demon,_ ” Fenris spits, interrupting.

Anders looks back down to focus on the elf’s side. “I... must have lost control to him.”

“Perfect,” Fenris says, hissing through his teeth when Anders presses gently against the skin with his hand. “Just perfect.”

“I’ll assume that hurts,” Anders says coldly, but his expression softens immediately. “Will you let me heal you?”

Fenris sighs, glowering. “Just get it done.”

Anders settles on his knees and begins the process. “Those women. Did I... did Justice--”

“Kill them?” Fenris interrupts. “The human is dead. The elf, gone. Not until she got what she came for, however. You do realize you’ve given her exactly what she wanted?”

Anders looks up and catches Fenris’s eyes, annoyed. “They wanted me. They don’t have me.”

“They wanted your demon, not you. You’ve merely baited them with it now.”

“They knew about Justice already. We should just let Hawke know that--”

“That there are even more people targeting you?” Fenris snarls. “That in addition to the templars and the Knight-Commander, you now have blood mages after you, too? What do you expect _Hawke_ is going to do about it?”

Anders shakes his head, unsure how to respond to Fenris’s sudden anger. That he even has to think about it is a testament to how long it’s been since they’ve fought. “I don’t know,” he admits tentatively, and shrugs. “The same thing Hawke always does, I suppose. Hunt them down? Smash first, ask questions later?”

“Of course you’re joking at a time like this.” Fenris utters a sound of distaste. 

“Fenris, we get attacked all the time,” Anders tries to remind him, not knowing what to say.

“This time they’re after _you._ ” Fenris says through his teeth. Before Anders even has a chance to respond, he continues. “All of this because you couldn’t simply say ‘no’ to your spirit. Think about all it’s wrought. Did you even think about the people who care for you? The effect it would have on them?”

Anders tries to quell the anger that rises within him, and fails. When he speaks, the words are heavy and bitter. “I would have if there’d been any! I was alone, Fenris. The Warden Commander was gone. The templars knew they couldn’t cage me so they kept me on a short bloody leash instead.”

“And they were right not to trust you!” Fenris growls, shifting forward and moving into his personal space.

“Right, and what would you know of trust?” Anders refutes, and then motions to the filthy space around them. “You live alone in someone else’s house, sequestered away from the rest of the world, waiting for your revenge. Is this what you wanted, Fenris? Is this what it means for you to be free?”

Fenris’s voice registers just above a low hum. “Have a look at what’s left of yourself, Anders, and then speak to me of freedom. I have long known loneliness and I will know it again once you’ve finished destroying yourself.”

Anders doesn’t bother responding, doesn’t have to take this from someone who cares only about himself. He gathers his clothing in silence, dresses himself fully, and tries to ignore the bloodbath in the main hall when he leaves without a goodbye.


	31. Thirty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They were here,” he says quietly, blocking the view through the door, and Anders begins to worry in earnest._
> 
> _“And?” He questions impatiently, shifting on his feet._
> 
> _Fenris averts his eyes. “You will not be pleased to see it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm going to start the chapter off by apologizing. Again. I'm so sorry for the delay! Thank you all so much for your continued support with this. I plan to get myself back on some sort of writing schedule, so hopefully I'll be updating more regularly. Again, thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Fenris sits and follows the cracks in the wall with his eyes, absently studying the random spatters of blood - possibly wine - and doesn’t react when the door slams closed downstairs. For several moments, he sits in the silence of the mansion and contemplates exactly what it is he should or shouldn’t do in this situation.

Anders is in danger. It’s probable that the group after him has set some sort of trap in Darktown, a simple ambush with the mage’s own home as a lure. The witch had mentioned that they’d been to the clinic already, had in fact checked there first for what they sought: Anders, the apostate. The mage. The virulent and lethal abomination.

Fenris scowls at the wall once more, wishes he could blame its crumbling form for the tightness that grips his chest, _hates_ that he knows better. It’s his own fault that it’s come to this point, that he’s allowed himself to see beyond the obvious threat that Anders poses - to his friends, to Kirkwall, to _himself._ And why should that last possibility be the most disconcerting of them all? Fenris shakes his head and stares intently forward, but the cool, grey stone offers him no answer.

How had he let it get this far? It was one thing to go about aiding Hawke on his eccentric errands; he owed the man a debt, mage or no. Keeping him and his apostate friends from the watchful eyes the templars was a risk to be certain, but it was a risk Fenris took in the name of loyalty, one of the few virtues he ever thought to personify. Befriending the most dangerous, the most headstrong of them all was another thing altogether. And it was something Fenris had walked into himself, fully aware of the potential consequence. That it had led to something physical, something _intimate,_ was... fortuitous. That he’d begun to develop something akin to _fondness_ for the mage was absurd.

Fenris stands and unlaces his trousers, allows them to drop to the ground and steps carefully out of them without any definite idea of what he intends to do. He looks down at the fabric, remembers the contrast of Anders’s porcelain skin next to dark silk, recalls the way it flushes in response to even the lightest touch of his fingertips, the way it stretches and pulls over tired muscle. He swallows hard, shuts his eyes, shakes his head, but the image is stubborn like the man himself and won’t clear. Fenris sighs and eyes his sword for a moment before he begins dressing, resigning himself to the fact that he can’t simply sit back and do nothing.

***

By the time Anders reaches Darktown, his pulse is pounding relentlessly in his ears, sweat dripping readily down the side of his face, heart perched high in his tightened throat. He stops to catch his breath in a darkened corner, needs to calm down and gather his thoughts in case there’s a trap waiting for him - but all he can think about is Fenris.

He shouldn’t be surprised that the man is finally showing his true colours once again; it was only a matter of time before he came to his senses and realized who and what he was getting involved with - if it could even be called that. Part of Anders knew better than to label what they were doing, was keenly aware that whatever it was wouldn’t last, _couldn’t_ last between two men with so many secrets and such abject pasts. The same part of him knew it was futile even to try, but then why had Fenris’s outburst hit him like a sucker punch to the gut?

The man is abrasive at the best of times, obstinate and unyielding for the sake of being contrary. He’s overly aggressive, animalistic in his rage, morally backwards and adamantly vocal about it. He’s bitter and sharp, all vitriol and gnashing teeth, and yet... Anders is drawn to his unique and quiet way. Fenris fought his way to freedom with nothing more than desire and a strong will, something Anders has no trouble admitting is admirable. He’s made a place for himself and gained self-respect even after a life that surely made every effort to drain it from him.

Fenris never said as much outright, but Anders always suspected that his relationship with Danarius went beyond the role of bodyguard. The way the man avoids contact and shuns intimacy is indicative of more than that. Anders knows a victim of personal depredation when he gets to know one; had known too many victims of assault in the Circle and treated them in Darktown. That Fenris allows anyone to know him at all is remarkable, really - a testament to his strength and resiliency.

Anders wipes the sweat from his brow and takes in another deep breath, considering the implications of his thoughts. For one reason or another, Fenris trusted him enough to be honest about his feelings for Hawke. He allowed him to get close, at least as close as Hawke himself had, from what little he knew. He allowed Anders to know his remorse, to acknowledge his regret. Most incredibly, he allowed him to _touch,_ something there’s no way he did easily.

Closing his eyes and steeling himself for confrontation, Anders turns back toward Lowtown.

***

Peculiarly, there is no fight. When Anders spots Fenris in his peripheral vision, moving unnoticed through the last of the market crowd, the elf gives him a long, considering look before closing the distance between them. Instead of speaking, he simply nods his head in a definitive but tacit gesture that suggests Anders lead the way. The remaining journey through Darktown is just as silent. Anders can’t decide whether or not to be grateful.

When they reach the clinic, they find the doors still tightly locked. With no small sigh of relief, Anders fishes a key out of his pocket, then stills when a gauntleted hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Let me go first,” Fenris posits, tone leaving little room for argument. For once, Anders doesn’t bother trying. Instead, he unlocks the door and waits anxiously, staff in hand, while Fenris slips inside. For several moments, he hears nothing from within and wonders whether he should feel relieved.

“Fenris?” He calls once his curiosity gets the better of him, worry starting to bloom from the silence. When he receives an annoyed _stay there_ in return, he rolls his eyes. Several minutes later, Fenris returns with a scowl on his face.

“They were here,” he says quietly, blocking the view through the door, and Anders begins to worry in earnest.

“And?” He questions impatiently, shifting on his feet.

Fenris averts his eyes. “You will not be pleased to see it.” When his gaze finally comes back up to meet Anders’s, the mage thinks he sees remorse. When he pushes past Fenris and into the clinic, he understands why.

Strewn about the dirt floor of Darktown’s only sanctuary is everything Anders claims as his own. The clinic’s few cots have been tipped and trampled, shelves emptied of their contents and smashed to pieces, crates of supplies ravished. Bandages, potions, salves, and herbs lie littering the dirt, shards of their glass housings glinting harshly in the setting sun. In the centre of it all, Anders’s completed manifesto lies plastered to the ground, covered with impossibly black ink.

Anders surveys the devastation absently, feeling detached. _Years of work,_ he thinks, the thought ringing hollow in his head. _All that coin..._ Before he can stop it, a telling heat begins to spread over his chest, gripping his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. His head swims with a dizzying energy, quickening pulse ringing loudly in his ears. Anders struggles to stay in control.

When Fenris approaches from behind, he tries to warn him - attempts something so simple as opening his mouth to tell him to run - but it's already too late. His voice is no longer his own. Mana pulses violently in his chest and his head, a visceral part of him shoving to the forefront, threatening to burst from his skin. He fights, but it’s helpless; the best he can do is curl in on himself and cradle his head, the simple movement sapping him of what little energy he's managed to sequester for himself.

"Anders," Fenris says sharply, his voice cutting through the fog and the haze to reach its intended target, but the mage can't respond, trapped as he is in the back of his mind, fighting for dominion over his own body. He feels his eyes open, sees Fenris approach him through a blue haze, brows knitted and expression fierce. "Begone, demon," he snarls, and Anders feels a fresh surge of pain as Justice jerks his body upright, standing unnaturally straight.

"I am no demon!" He hears himself roar, the sound of his own voice deafening. "You know nothing of me!"

"I know enough," Fenris spits viciously, and when Justice steps forward, he mirrors the motion and stares him down fearlessly. A few short inches away, he glares with a cold intensity that only adds to Anders’s growing dismay. Voice low, controlled, Fenris speaks. "I know that you’re meddling in a life that isn’t your own,” he begins evenly, something in his tone leaving Anders feeling increasingly hollow. “One that Anders had to fight to claim for his own. I know that you’ve nothing to do with the good he’s done here.” He motions to indicate their surroundings.

Justice reels. “Anders and I have accomplished this together!”

Fenris huffs, the sound bitter. “Can you heal, demon?” He taunts. “Do you give comfort? Or do you merely take credit for something Anders does alone?”

“I give him strength,” the spirit argues derisively, but Fenris doesn’t let him continue.

“You give him nothing!” He snaps, then utters a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. For a terrifying moment, he steps away, distancing himself. A silent and powerless audience, Anders watches helplessly. When Fenris turns back again several seconds later, he seems to have collected himself once more.

“You take from him,” he says grimly through his teeth, and the expression on his face tells Anders that the words aren’t easy to say. “You take from a decent man to meet your own twisted needs and you call it a favour.” He motions to the remainder of the mage’s belongings on the clinic floor. “This is your doing,” he says almost softly, meeting the spirit’s gaze. “Those mages weren’t after Anders, they were after you.”

Justice glares back harshly. “Anders was aware that there would be consequences to our joining,” he reasons.

“Was he?” Fenris asks pointedly, moving into his space again in a show of intimidation. “Did you tell him that you would take away his freedom? Make his choices for him? Put him and the people who care about him in perpetual danger? Or did you neglect to mention it?”

“I saved him!” Justice shouts, and Anders recoils internally at the sound of his own voice underlying someone else’s words.

“I’ll believe that when I see him survive you,” Fenris growls, turning away and making to leave. When Anders’s exhausted body collapses feebly to the floor, he reluctantly turns back.


	32. Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anders leans against the wall, fatigue obvious in both his stance and expression. “You have ink on your cheek, you know,” he ventures, a lazy half-smile shaping his lips, and Fenris merely glares at him again. “It’s also in your hair.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I apologize with every chapter I post, but for what little it's worth, I'm sorry for the delay in getting this written and posted. The past few months have been a struggle for me health-wise, but I'm working through it and hoping to come out better on the other side. So many of you have left kind words for me here or on my Tumblr and I can't even begin to tell you how much they're appreciated. Every comment, every kudos, and every page view encourages me to keep going.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this story and for having such patience with me.
> 
> Thanks especially to s00ka, foxghost, autumnesquirrel, and cypheroftyr for reassuring me that I can still make words happen.

Fenris bends and picks up one of the few potion bottles that’s still in one piece, careful to avoid spilling its contents. He grumbles softly under his breath, an idle curse aimed at blood mages and apostate healers alike, general displeasure more than anything else. _Mages._ Stopping to survey the remainder of the mess on the floor, he hears Anders snoring softly in the back room and breathes a small sigh of relief. After succumbing to his spirit, the mage had been in no condition to help with the clinic. When Fenris had suggested that he rest instead, there’d surprisingly been no argument. Focusing once more on the wreckage before him, he sighs quietly and begins looking around, hoping to locate a broom.

Once it’s cleared of the larger pieces of toppled furnishings and other major debris, the chaos takes considerably less time to clean than Fenris imagined. By the time he’s done away with the majority of the mess and salvaged anything still useable, all that’s left is a neat, shimmering pile of wooden splinters and broken glass. Not knowing where Anders prefers to dump his refuse, he sweeps it to the side of the space and leaves it for the mage to decide. Tired, overheated, and slightly sticky, he takes the time to fill an empty bucket with water and begins wiping off the grime with the cleanest cloth he can find.

“I can warm that for you,” Anders says from behind him, and Fenris doesn’t start so much as he _surges,_ energy pulsing inadvertently outward and causing Anders to shiver. He shoots the mage a look of annoyance.

“No,” he responds flatly, and returns to his task.

Anders leans against the wall, fatigue obvious in both his stance and expression. “You have ink on your cheek, you know,” he ventures, a lazy half-smile shaping his lips, and Fenris merely glares at him again. “It’s also in your hair.”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Fenris tries, scrubbing insistently now at his face, and thinks that he’s not at all in the mood for conversation.

“I was worried about the mess,” Anders says, stepping closer, and the other man stiffens at his proximity. “...But I see you beat me to it.”

“It was necessary,” Fenris excuses, giving up and throwing the cloth down with a scoff. He turns and steps his way around the mage, making for the door, seeking escape. Remaining here after his encounter with Justice had been a poor idea. _The most recent in a long series of poor ideas,_ his mind suggests unkindly, and he finds himself walking faster.

“You’re leaving?” Anders calls after him, confusion obvious in his tone.

“Apparently,” Fenris murmurs under his breath, stopping briefly to secure his sword to his back.

“So you stayed to clean and now that I’m awake, you’re going home?” Anders asks, following him to the door. When Fenris doesn’t respond immediately, considering his words instead, the mage reaches out and grasps one leather-clad shoulder.

Stopping instantly and stifling the urge to react with violence, Fenris turns to face him, glaring. “ _Let. Go._ ” He threatens through his teeth, and watches with a certain sort of satisfaction when Anders does immediately as he’s told, pulling his hand away as if physically burned.

“I’m sorry,” the mage says quickly, shaking his head, and if the look of dismay on his face is anything to go by, the apology is genuine. “I didn’t mean --” He interrupts himself with a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry about Justice,” he finally manages, shoulders slumping.

Fenris surveys Anders’s face for a moment, takes in the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines etched in his forehead, and fails to ignore the way that they seem to make his chest feel hollow. In a decision he knows he’ll likely regret, he clears his throat and offers what he hopes will suffice as an invitation. “There is a proper bath at the mansion,” he starts, shifting his stance uncomfortably on the dirt floor. “I confess I don’t know how to remove ink from one’s hair.”

***

“You never told me you had this here,” Anders says to the room’s stone walls, voice echoing gently back. He runs graceful fingers along the edge of the shallow bath, stopping to examine the pump at one end. “What I wouldn’t do to have one of these at the clinic...”

“I don’t know that it would fit your aesthetic,” Fenris answers from the doorway, feeling characteristically awkward as always, unsure of the decorum in such a situation. _A situation you invited upon yourself,_ his thoughts remind him unhelpfully.

Anders turns and smirks at him, the expression only doing a little to lift the heavy exhaustion from his face. Turning to view the stonework again, he kicks off his boots one at a time, balancing awkwardly on each leg for a moment to remove his worn pair of socks. Hiking his trousers up at the knee, he steps barefoot into the bath and approaches the pump.

Fenris watches him with thinly-veiled curiosity, still standing just outside the room as if stepping forward even once would violate some unspoken set of rules. He follows Anders’s movement as the mage strips off his coat and tosses it haphazardly to the side of the room. His tunic following shortly afterward, Fenris traces his eyes down the slim line of Anders’s bare back, taking in scars and skin. When the mage turns to face him, he meets his gaze immediately, knowing he’s been caught.

“You could come help me with this,” Anders suggests with a trace of amusement, and Fenris finds himself unusually grateful for the other man’s bluntness. He steps forward, doing away with his imaginary threshold and making his way across the room, stopping for a few moments to remove his armor with practiced precision. When he inserts himself between Anders and the pump, dressed only in his leggings, the mage chuckles and steps away to give him more room. Fenris busies himself filling the bath, focusing decidedly on the squeaking protests of the device instead of his rather sudden, inexplicable bout of nerves.

“Will you let me heat the water?” Anders asks, and Fenris notes that the mage’s voice is no longer coming from directly behind him.

“You... are asking my permission,” he states without turning, the words forming not in his mind but on his lips instead, eliminating the possibility of censorship. “Why bother?”

“I know how you feel about magic,” Anders provides carefully after a brief silence, not sounding entirely sure of his response. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Fenris remains quiet for a moment, warring with uncertainty in his head and wondering what it is about the other man that always leaves him spilling his words instead of shutting his mouth like he’s used to. “Why should you care for my discomfort?” He asks, urge winning out over will. The question comes out sharper than he intends, cutting as most of his words are, and he turns around to survey their effect.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Anders answers stubbornly, now perched naked on the edge of the tub, somehow no less prideful for his complete lack of clothing. “You could have left me at the clinic, but you didn’t. I was home, I was safe. Why bother with me at all?”

Fenris feels his jaw clamp shut of its own volition, finds his eyes aimed fixedly at the floor, and forces his gaze upward once again despite the fact that he knows he doesn’t have an answer.

“And don’t you dare give me some bullshit excuse about cleaning,” Anders adds, staring him down.

Fenris turns away, shaking his head absently. For several moments, he stands in utter silence.

“Well?” Anders taunts, looking expectant.

“...I don’t know,” Fenris eventually concedes to himself, the words not making it far past his lips. Turning, he looks at Anders and shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know,” he repeats aloud, not bothering to conceal the desperation in his voice. “Do you not think I’ve asked myself that question already?” He spits, growing agitated.

“Why bother with the mage? Why bother with the reckless _abomination_ who lives in the sewers, carelessly drawing attention from who knows where? Why bother with someone so clearly bent on self-destruction that he doesn’t even _attempt_ to protect himself anymore?” Fenris takes a single step in the water, suddenly unable to keep his body still. He kicks futilely at the ripples that radiate from his feet and huffs, feeling tired and exposed. Turning to Anders, he lifts his hands and drops them again in a vague gesture of defeat. “Why care about _you_ of all people?”

For a moment, Anders simply stares at him, looking anguished. “Fenris,” he begins, voice cracking, but Fenris ignores him, watching the water settle and then still around his ankles.  
When the mage rises silently and takes the few steps between them, Fenris doesn’t move. He feels the soft, perpetual pulse of mana envelop him just as an unsteady hand comes to rest on his waist, trembling fingertips cool against his skin. Anders’s other hand lifts his chin, forces him to take in the sight of darkened honey eyes. Instead of protesting the contact, Fenris leans into it unwittingly, his desire for the other man’s touch betraying him. Pale fingers slide easily along his jaw and rise to cup his cheek, and when Anders thumbs his bottom lip gently, almost reverently, he knows that he’s lost.

Swallowing the growl that rises in his throat, Fenris surges forward, grabbing Anders’s head with both hands and pulling him in to claim his mouth. Their lips come together harshly, almost painfully, but he pushes for more, encouraged by the way Anders softens, instinctively surrendering to his control. The mage’s breath is hot, sweet as it melds with his own, lips soft and tongue eager. Fenris takes a blind, uncoordinated step forward and Anders steps back, understanding the tacit instruction. Without separating, the two of them maneuver clumsily toward the corner, stopping just shy of the bath’s raised, rounded edge.

“Sit,” Fenris orders against swollen lips, and Anders pulls away with a whimper at the word, never silent even when otherwise occupied, perpetually running his mouth. He does as he’s told, lowering himself to sit on the raised surface of stonework where one wall meets the other, pleading with his eyes for renewed contact. Fenris strips himself of his leggings and smallclothes, not bothering to look and see where they land when he tosses them, unwilling to draw his eyes away from flushed skin and palpable _want_.

“Please,” Anders begs, as if his rapidly swelling length isn’t evidence enough of his need. Fenris pauses to take in the sight before him, is drawn by the unguarded expression on Anders’s face, the impetuousness of his gaze, and finds himself dropping heedlessly to his knees.

Confusion flashes briefly over the mage’s features, schooling quickly to concern when Fenris places an open hand on either of his thighs. When he leans in to brush his lips over the skin of Anders’s knee, the other man places a hand over his own.

“Fenris, I don’t expect you to--”

“ _Don’t._ ” Fenris warns, effectively silencing him with his tone. “I told you before; I will not have your pity.”

Anders studies him closely for a few drawn-out seconds, pupils flitting from eye to eye, before lifting his hand and apparently swallowing his objection.

“Do you consent?” Fenris asks plainly, unconsciously gripping tighter with his fingers. He hadn’t planned on ever doing this again - not willingly, not with a mage, with _Anders_ \- but with the taste of the man on his lips and the intensity of those _eyes_ on him, he can’t deny the desire that pulls at him.

Still looking slightly uneasy, Anders lets out a slow breath and nods his head. “If this is what you want, I certainly won't stop you.”

Without further comment, Fenris leans back in and presses his lips to the inside of one impossibly pale thigh, the skin smooth and warm against his own. He feels Anders’s muscles tense under his touch, looks up to find the mage’s eyes shut and his head tilted back. Slowly, he runs blunt fingernails up the outside of Anders’s legs, pleased when goosebumps break out on his flesh, a contented hum sounding from his throat. Meeting soft skin once more with his mouth, Fenris draws a trail with his tongue up the inside of the mage’s thigh, stopping at intervals to nip and then suck, marking his path. When Anders moans quietly above him, he feels a dizzy rush of blood downward, the sound heading straight for his cock.

“You’re teasing me,” the mage gripes, though the expression on his face speaks nothing of discontentment. “That’s not fair.”

Fenris feels a smile pull at his lips. “Life is very rarely fair.”

Lowering his head once more, he kisses the juncture where Anders’s thigh meets his body, breathes hot air over sensitive skin, and hums quietly to himself when the mage’s cock twitches in response. Before Anders can complain again, Fenris grips him firmly and presses his tongue to the underside of his shaft, licking deliberately upward. When he reaches the tip, he closes his lips over the head and swirls his tongue around the reddened flesh before pulling away with a quiet _pop._ He looks up to find Anders watching him intently, pupils dilated and lips parted slightly, his cheeks flushed. When Fenris feels himself begin to redden in response, he focuses his attention once more on Anders’s length.

The mage’s cock is proportionally long and curves notably to his left, its width no less impressive, and Fenris’s tongue slips out and over his bottom lip in unconscious appreciation. He takes the head between his lips once more and flicks at the slit with the tip of his tongue, eliciting a whimper from above. Taking his time to savor the response, he lowers his head and slowly takes more of the other man into his mouth. Anders moans breathlessly, the muscles in his thighs shifting, and Fenris feels gentle fingers smooth his hair back and away from his face, unexpectedly tender. Relaxing under the other man’s touch, he suppresses the reflex to let his throat tighten and takes Anders in all the way, a skill he’s unexpectedly grateful he possesses. Pulling up again and trusting that he’ll have the freedom to breathe at will, he takes in a deep breath of air and begins to slide carefully up and down.

The longer Fenris continues to bob on Anders’s cock, the louder and more desperate the man’s cries become, sweet sounds echoing off of stone walls until Fenris has to pull away for good, his breathing shallow and his head swimming, euphoric. When Anders grips the back of his neck and pulls him up into a tight embrace, he goes without a fight, letting himself be directed. Climbing into the other man’s lap, he presses himself against heated skin, craving contact, needing to be close. He kisses Anders eagerly, bumping their noses - _clumsy_ \- before the mage tilts his head to adjust and wraps his arms around Fenris’s middle, pulling him closer. Instinctively, Fenris wraps his legs around Anders’s back and settles against him, rocking impulsively in search of friction.

Anders is sex beneath him, desperate whimpers and frantic hands gripping his back, his kisses insistent even as they stray from Fenris’s lips to his chin and then his jaw. “Tell me what you want,” he purrs into the heated skin of Fenris’s neck, mouth just below his ear, and the breaking of his voice sends a shiver snaking hotly down Fenris’s spine.

He hadn’t thought of this, either - didn’t anticipate getting close enough to anyone even to consider the possibility - and for a moment he freezes, taken aback by the undeniable longing he feels for something he’d once thought degrading, submissive. Anders’s hands smooth easily over the skin of his back, warm and already familiar, welcome. Where they pass over his markings, Fenris feels a soft current flow through him, the same dulcet thrum that comes with Anders’s usual presence intensified, soothing and invigorating all at once, this time for him and him alone. Coming back to the moment, Fenris looks to find Anders’s eyes on him, hungry but somehow gentle, patient, and it occurs to him that what he’s feeling is essentially who the mage _is,_ a man who gives everything of himself for the comfort of others and never thinks to ask anything in return.

Leaning in to kiss him once more, decided, Fenris reaches to guide Anders’s hands downward on his back, fervently hoping that the action will convey his meaning for him. Anders pulls back and meets his gaze immediately, questioning without words, and when Fenris nods minutely, the mage kisses him with renewed vigor, gripping him tightly and pulling him closer. Fenris moans openly when Anders’s hands tightly squeeze the curves of his ass, startled slightly by his own response. When the other man slides a single finger between his cheeks and brushes lightly over puckered skin, he feels his eyes flutter closed.

“I’ll need oil,” Anders mumbles in his ear, grazing his lips over the skin there briefly, and Fenris nods his head in response, bracing for the spark of magic when it comes and gasping anyway when it surges thrillingly through his body. Anders smooths warm slick over his entrance, pressing gently and circling, stroking with his fingertips until Fenris very nearly growls at him, needing more. When he finally slips a finger inside, Fenris clenches purposely around him, wanting to pull him deeper, craving the fullness he knows a single digit can’t provide. Anders hums approval under him, pulling his hand away slightly before pressing back in again, pace agonizing.

“You tease me,” Fenris rumbles, voice deep, the sound reverberating lowly and coming back behind him.

“Sometimes life _is_ fair,” Anders purrs in response, sliding a second finger inside and pressing his mouth to the junction of Fenris’s neck and shoulder, drawing a moan from him. Deliberately, he works his fingers in and out again, Fenris pressing back into them each time, revelling in the slight strain when Anders spreads them and stretches him open.

Growing impatient, he pulls Anders’s face to him and kisses him roughly, pulling away only when he’s light-headed and nearly out of breath, separating just far enough to press their foreheads together. Reaching between them, he grips Anders’s cock and strokes him slowly once, twice, repeating the motion until the other man’s eyes fall closed and his breath catches sharply in his throat. Anders responds in kind, thrusting his fingers deeper inside and spreading them apart one last time before pulling out completely, smiling at the soft whimper and the hitch in Fenris’s breath that escape his parted lips.

Shifting his hips, Fenris angles himself so that Anders is in line with his entrance, arms and legs wrapped solidly around the mage’s back, the two of them chest to chest. Amber eyes fixed raptly on his own, he concentrates on the sensation as the other man rubs the head of his cock over the slick, puckered skin between his cheeks. When Anders grips himself and begins pressing in with a low moan, Fenris willfully doesn't tense at the slight burn and the pressure. Anders stills just as the head slips completely inside, kissing him gently and whimpering into his mouth, giving him time to adjust.

Fenris exhales slowly and moves of his own accord, tightening his legs around Anders’s waist for leverage and lowering himself deliberately onto the mage’s cock, closing his eyes and savouring the heated slide of every inch as he’s filled. Anders grips his back hard and breathes hot air into the crook of his neck, bringing goosebumps out on his skin and forcing him to swallow another moan. The mage presses his mouth to Fenris’s exposed throat, painting his skin with a dozen invisible kisses before moving to his collarbone and doing the same, fingers now threading through the hair at the back of Fenris’s head.

Anders’s cock is thick and impossibly hard inside him, and Fenris bites back a growl as he lifts himself up and then takes it in once more, the flared head brushing a spot inside that sends a subtle shock tracing up his spine. The mage whimpers beneath him when he lifts and comes down harder this time, humming pleasure in the back of his throat. He repeats the motion, taking a moment to grind down on Anders’s length, and when the other man gasps in his ear and pushes up against him, he does it again and again just to elicit the sound.

Fenris rides him earnestly, setting an easy pace that draws curses to dance unspoken at the tip of his tongue. Anders’s hands explore every inch of his back, his sides, his shoulders, and he relishes the contact, holding the other man tightly and pressing himself close. His head coming to rest, exhausted, in the crook of Anders’s neck, they move inextricably together until all he can feel is the friction of his cock against the mage’s stomach, the solid heat of Anders’s length inside him, and the strong arms wrapped soundly around his back. Biting down on the skin of Anders’s shoulder to stifle his cry, he comes hard, making a mess of them both but hardly noticing, utterly unable to care. Beneath him, Anders trembles as he reaches the end of his endurance, a breathless moan catching in his throat as he finally lets go, and Fenris can feel his cock throbbing inside with his release, nerves oversensitive.

When his breathing finally slows and the hammering pulse in his head dulls somewhat, Fenris reluctantly moves to pull away.

“Stay,” Anders murmurs into his neck, and against his better judgment, Fenris does.


End file.
